


Knives and Roses

by peachycans



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Sexual Content, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Mutilation, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-10-05 01:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10294355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachycans/pseuds/peachycans
Summary: A collection of Outlast oneshots.(This series is a work in progress)





	1. Superpowers (No Pairing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ha, you’re like the Hulk! _“That’s my secret, Cap. I’m always angry…”_ (No Pairing)
> 
> **Warnings**  
>  •Self harm  
> •Mention of mutilation  
> •Mental instability

“What… the hell… _Waylon…?”_

_‘S-shit.’_

“What _was_ that?!” shouted Miles Upshur. He sat on his ass across the room, his hands folded over the back of his head. His eyes were shut tight, his face contorted in pain.

“I-I don’t know,” whispered Waylon, turning his gaze downward towards his outstretched hands. He closed and unclosed his fists before daring to look upon what had become of his friend.

Miles had collided head-first into the nearest bathroom stall, his arm left a twisted mess on the floor. Waylon was thankful that Miles had enough sense to loosen his limb into elasticity before impact. Otherwise, he would be sporting a freshly-broken arm.

Once Miles began to show signs of recovery, Waylon let his worry cease, replaced by a twinge of annoyance. He turned his back to Miles, glaring at his own reflection above the sink. “T-that’s what you get for sneaking up on me while I’m pissing…”

Waylon watched Miles’ reflection in the mirror as he found his footing, keeping one hand against the back of his head. “Are you _serious?_ You just threw me across the room without even _touching_ me, and _that’s_ what you’re upset about?!” he snarled, spitting into a nearby trash can. “Some friend you are…”

“I’m _sorry,_ okay?” wheezed Waylon, his hands trembling where they had latched on to the bathroom sink. “All I had meant to do was to _push you away—”_

“I thought you didn’t have any powers,” said Miles, cutting him off. Waylon could detect the air of caution in his friend’s posture as Miles shuffled around, making his way over to Waylon at the sinks. “Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m… fine.” said Waylon, running a hand through his hair. 

Miles popped his shoulder, rolling it as the rest of his arm shifted back into place. He continued, “Do you think you have super strength like Chris?” he asked, “They come in all shapes and sizes, you know.”

Waylon looked up, glaring at Miles’ teasing smirk. He watched as Miles took another step towards him, patting him on the shoulder. “It’d be funny to see Mount Massive’s lil’ cutie have one of the most powerful mutations in the building.” he laughed.

Waylon cringed, a twinge of anger stabbing at his gut. _‘Is that all I’ve ever be in this hell? The weak one, the “cute one”, the one everyone can push around,’_ he thought to himself, his fingers curling tightly over the rim of the sink.

His knuckles cracked. The mirror before him splintered, small pieces of glass falling off of the frame and into the drain.

As soon as Waylon felt the pain of a shard grazing his knuckles, he gasped, pushing himself away from the sink. The glass crackled and popped only a feet away, warning of future collapse.

Even Miles seemed taken aback by the sudden bout of aggression Waylon had presented as he stepped away from both the mirror and Waylon. He seemed at a loss, shifting his gaze between the destroyer and the destroyed. “Maybe…” he paused, thinking. “—maybe you have the power of telekinesis!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Oh man, that’s so badass!”

“T-telekinesis? But I… I thought…” said Waylon, trailing off.

“You parents genetics, they both had separate powers, but each power was a minor form of telekinesis that Murkoff didn’t consider to be related,” explained Miles, scratching his chin. “An illusion worker and a manipulation artist? You being born as a telekinetic would be a plausible outcome.”

Waylon shivered and sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. He didn’t understand how or why he would be presenting his powers so late. All mutations present during the first few years of life. It didn’t make any sense that he could be a telekinetic, after all the time he’d spent inside of the facility.

_‘Or…’_ Waylon glanced up to where wall met ceiling, narrowing his eyes. He wouldn’t doubt the chance that Murkoff could be watching both of them, having already installed stunts and micro security cameras into the bathroom to test them. It could all be just another experiment.

_‘But then again…’_

It didn’t make sense that Murkoff would have the capabilities hit the stunts right on the dot with his own actions, even with security cameras placed throughout the room. There should’ve been at least a millisecond delay between his knuckles cracking and the stunt popping. Waylon was left unsure over whether Miles and the mirror were of his own volition, or someone else’s.

“I-if I was,” said Waylon, casting his gaze to the floor. “How would I be able to know without Murkoff knowing, too?” 

Miles hummed, “Well… we could always test it out here,” he suggested, gesturing around the empty restroom.

Waylon gulped, shaking his head. “I thought I had a _Still_ mutation…”

Both teens fell into a long, heavy silence. Waylon didn’t have to look at Miles to know he was pacing back and forth. His heavy, clunking footsteps were all Waylon needed to hear to know he was thinking, hard.

After a full minute of wordless quiet, Waylon heard Miles gasp, followed by excited footsteps, “I’ve got it!” exclaimed Miles, pointing towards the cracked mirror. “Shatter it.”

“T-the mirror?”

Miles nodded.

“Wouldn’t that make too much noise? What if one of the officers come in and see what happened?” asked Waylon, his hands quivering by his sides. He didn’t want to know what consequences would be dealt if he was caught not only breaking a mirror, but using powers no one, not even _he_ knew he possessed.

When Waylon didn’t receive an answer, he resigned, nodding. Slowly, he turned back towards the mirror, closing his eyes in an attempt to concentrate. His thoughts morphed into the image of the mirror breaking, small particles of glass twinkling against the grimy tile floor.

After a few seconds of nothing, he opened his eyes, pressing his fingers against the mirror. He huffed, looking over to Miles. “It’s not working.”

Miles reached down, picking one of the old fragments of glass out of the sink. He seemed to inspect the piece carefully, his eyes narrowing in on the shimmer held within it. “Well… when you cracked the glass, you were angry with me. Maybe your mutation can be controlled by emotion,” he suggested, tossing the shard back into the sink.

As Waylon thought his analysis over, Miles laughed. “Ha, you’re like the Hulk! _“That’s my secret, Cap. I’m always angry…”_

“Shut up,” muttered Waylon, trying to keep his attention focused on the mirror. Another small crack splintered through the upper half of the glass as he thought back to Miles’ previous statement. A delighted shiver ran up his spine, his fingers twitching against the sink.

Miles placed his hands over his hips. “Well, there you go,” he chuckled, patting Waylon on the back. “What pisses you off, Waylon?”

Waylon shook his head, pushing himself away from the mirror. “Maybe anger can only destroy things,” he said, turning worried eyes towards Miles. “What if I wanted to move something? What emotion would control that part of telekinetic power?”

“Hell if I know,” said Miles, shrugging. “You think I’m a telekinetic expert? Just try using anger for now. That’s the one emotion we’ve learned works with your mutation so far.”

Waylon tried thinking of less than happy thoughts. His mother. His father. They…

Waylon cringed, looking away as a spider-web crack broke through the center of the mirror. What remained continued to stay upright.

Miles stepped out of Waylon’s way, watching his progress from a distance. “Good, good. Come on Waylon, I believe in you; shatter it. Make Murkoff pay for a shiny new mirror.”

The indent popped and hissed before him. Waylon tried to reach into the deepest parts of his mind where he’d crushed down his most painful memories; things he wished he could bury for good. He closed his eyes, searching.

Captivity.

Murkoff.

Jeremy Blaire.

As Waylon thought, he felt his muscles contract, breath hitching in his throat. When he finally opened his eyes, the mirror seemed as though it’d frozen in time; the glass was paused in thin air like a photo taken mid-crash.

_‘Murkoff would’ve taken them all away from you, you know. Do you remember watching as Miles was pulled and stretched, limbs strewn all over the cold hard floor, pulled taught and stretching, stretching until he begged for mercy? Or what about the day the doctors stabbed Dennis over and over again, everywhere and anywhere just waiting to see what would bring him to his limit? What about the day they made Chris hit, kick and punch at an endless stream of walls and barricades until his fists bled, wrapped up in thick gauze for months on end? Think about all of the times they’ve stuck Eddie in the furnace down below, the ice breaking, melting, burning him until there was nothing left to burn, water leaking out of every pore and orifice…’_

_‘Go back to the very day as a child when the doctors tried to see what_ you _were made of.’_

Waylon cried out in agony, covering his ears with his hands. He couldn’t take it; the voices grew louder, stronger, more pronounced and deadly until he couldn’t hear anything else. The glass broke from the mirror, freezing again before Waylon screamed, thrusting his hands forward. The remaining shards were forced back into the mirror, breaking the frame off of the wall.

Waylon collapsed, sobbing hysterically as if all of the glass he’d thrown had not struck the wall, but his own body. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. The lights above them flickering violently, their shades swinging in protest from the pressure Waylon forced throughout the room.

Waylon thought he might’ve heard Miles calling out to him, arms wrapping around his waist, but he wasn’t paying attention. He could only think of the pain, the pressure, the _heat._

Waylon felt something wet and pulsing drip from his nose. It wasn’t snot; it was too thick, too suffocating as it poured out from inside of him. It dripped down his lips, over his chin and onto the floor.

The lights popped, small pieces of bulb falling onto the floor as the entire restroom was absorbed into darkness.

“ _Waylon!”_ called Miles through the black, his voice muffled by the ringing in Waylon’s ears. “Come back to me Waylon, come on!”

Slowly, Waylon felt the noise in his ears lessen in pitch. He blinked, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. Blood; he’d had a nosebleed. The blood stuck to his skin and left the foul smell of copper and death lingering around them.

As soon as Waylon found himself able to sit upright on his own, he felt Miles let go of his waist. Waylon then heard his footsteps walking across the room, but Waylon couldn’t tell precisely where he had gone.

Waylon sniffed as he heard Miles plop down beside him, reaching for Waylon’s hand. What felt like a large shard of glass was placed into the center of his palm. “We’ll tell the officers that we were fighting,” explained Miles. “Cut yourself.”

* * *

The officers on duty weren’t as forgiving as Miles.

They had shouted and shoved, prodded and pointed as the medics wrapped their wounds aggressively. They sliced one clean cut into both of their necks, that was to be expected, but it’d been done much deeper than normal. Waylon’s medic didn’t bother disinfecting the fresh wound, either. Waylon was left to staunch the bleeding with his own hand before the medic came back with a case full of gauze and bandages.

Miles was already waiting for him outside of the med bay once he was released. Waylon noticed warily that Miles’ neck had been patched up cleaner than Waylon’s, if only a little. However, Miles was also sporting a fresh black eye, and Waylon knew that he’d been acting up with the medics and officers during his patch-up.

“Great that we got to miss half of our dinner hour to those dicks, huh?” said Miles, rubbing at the bandages over his knuckles.

Waylon kept his eyes trained to the floor. “How many marks do you have now?”

“Hm?” hummed Miles. He paused, then laughed, pressing his hand over the large bandage covering his neck. “Oh, ha. Twelve. You?”

“Five,” said Waylon.

“Well isn’t someone a goodie two-shoes,” mocked Miles as they passed through the security checkpoint and into the cafeteria. 

Miles and Waylon stood in silence as they picked up their trays, walking up to the dinner attendants. They were more than a bit peeved at the two late inmates; Waylon was almost certain that there was spit in his food left as a gift from one of the attendants, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was hungry, after all.

As Waylon approached their usual table, he tried to ignore the fact that everyone was staring at both he and Miles as he took his seat between Dennis and Eddie. He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, prodding at his food with a semi-rusted fork.

Miles plopped down into his seat on the other side of the table by Frank and Chris without fear, digging into his meatloaf and potatoes. Waylon scrunched his nose in disgust, trying to eat around the saliva dripping down the side of his mashed potatoes.

Waylon felt a cold shiver run down his spine, a freezing chill cooling his right thigh. He paused, knowing that Eddie was most likely glaring down at him, wanting an explanation for their injuries. Waylon wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to give him one.

When Waylon reached forward to grab his bottle of milk, Eddie cut him off. His hand shot forward, frost coating Waylon’s wrist as Eddie’s gloved hand wrapped around it. Waylon gulped, his eyes flickering up to meet Eddie’s.

Eddie yanked Waylon’s wrist towards him, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up his arm to inspect his thickly-wrapped arm, gauze trailing all the way up to his elbow. Waylon glanced over at the other end of the table for some help from Miles, but his friend was already looking away, pretending to focus on the other inmates scattered throughout the room.

“Darling,” breathed Eddie, frost shooting further up Waylon’s arm. Eddie removed one of his hands in favor of cupping the underside of his jaw, his thumb brushing over his neck bandage.

Eddie snarled, “ _Darling,”_ he repeated, teeth clenched. “What did they _do to you?”_

“It wasn’t them, Eddie,” Waylon whispered, yanking his wrist out of Eddie’s relentless hold. “It’s okay. I’m… _fine.”_

“This,” said Eddie, prodding a finger over the neck bandage. “This is _always_ them.”

“Yeah, but the rest isn’t,” said Waylon, yanking his sleeve back down. He shook his head, returning to the task of opening his bottle of milk. 

Once Waylon finally took the hint that Eddie wasn’t about to calm down, he leaned back towards him, sighing. “Something came up. We can talk about it later.”

“Way has powers,” whispered Miles, his voice so low that half of the table’s occupants hadn’t even heard him.

However, Frank had. “Shit, the family baby’s all grown up?”

Waylon’s eye twitched.

“What is it?” Frank whispered to Miles, his gaze remaining fixed on Waylon. “Can he make shiny glitter blasts or something?”

_‘No one will ever respect you. Pathetic.’_ Waylon clenched his teeth, his fingers closing over his palm into a fist, crushing both the piece of bread in his hand and Frank’s water bottle.

“Oh my _fucking word!”_ Frank both laughed and screamed, jumping up and out of his seat as water exploded over his side of the table, soaking the front of his shirt

“Hey!” shouted a nearby guard, his footsteps rapidly approaching. He grabbed Frank by the back of his shirt, his meaty hand clenching around the older man’s neck. “The fuck is going on over here, huh?!”

“I think someone might’ve put explosives into our water supply again,” wheezed Frank, leaning over the guard’s shoulder. “I’d keep a closer eye on the pyromaniac over there from now on if I were you, eh?”

“Back in your seat Manera,” the guard hissed, shoving Frank into the table. He patted the knife holstered to his belt, glaring at everyone nearby before returning to his post, watching inmates from the far wall.

“Well I’ll be Waylon,” said Dennis, giving Waylon a gentle pat on the back.

“Can’t you just imagine the things he can do?” whispered Miles, practically bouncing in his seat. “We could…” he continued, stopping himself in favor of looking around for more guards.

“We get it,” Chris chimed in. “—but we probably shouldn’t talk about this here. Waylon won’t be able do _anything_ with this if the officers find out solely because you can’t keep your mouth shut.”

“Later,” said Dennis, placing one hand onto the table. “Let’s not overwhelm Waylon.”

“I’m not a baby,” mumbled Waylon, trying to keep his voice level.

“Sorry.”

“Later then,” Chris agreed, taking a sip from his water bottle. He glanced over to Waylon, offering him a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry, Waylon. You’ll figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is a series of oneshots that I'll be working on in between projects. Tags will be added as the series continues. If anyone likes one of the fic ideas, you are _more_ than welcome to use them as a starting point **as long as credit is given where it's due.**
> 
> * * *
> 
> This oneshot is what one of my previous stories, _Jailbirds_ , was supposed to be about.  
>  **Character Powers**  
>  Waylon: Telekinesis  
> Miles: Elasticity  
> Dennis: Immortality  
> Chris: Super-Strength  
> Eddie: Ice Mainpulation  
> Frank: Magnetism— though he can only attract and repel objects, not living organisms.


	2. Zombie Apocalypse (Miles Upshur/Waylon Park)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Back then they used to take anybody they could get their hands on and throw them into a room with one of Them and see what happened. ‘S how they separated the immune from the… well…” (Miles Upshur/Waylon Park)
> 
> **Warnings**  
>  •Body Horror

Miles Upshur had never meant to save Waylon Park.

Well—not at first. Waylon’s rescue hadn’t been planned, nor had it been something he’d done with anyone else before. However, it went against Miles’ moral code to just… leave him there to _die._

The facility appeared almost as though it’d been abandoned for years. Ever since the virus went viral, the scientific community of the Murkoff corporation had strived to find a cure for those infected. They had fled into their underground labs once the infection spread. Scientists would travel through tunnels connecting their facilities together, collecting the information needed to form an antidote.

That had been the idea, at least. After the people of Miles’ old safe house were picked off one by one, and there were more dead than alive left above ground, Murkoff had sealed their doors. They were out of the game.

Another laboratory had been dug out by Them and left to rot. Miles ran a hand along the muddy handprints and bloody claw marks as he descended down into the shaft. At the bottom, corpses leaked their fluids and rot onto the once polished linoleum.

Miles didn’t care much for presentation. Free supplies were free supplies, and when he’d managed to scavenge enough guns and bullets to keep himself alive, sifting through the uncharted laboratory had become a risk he was willing to take. 

Three clips of ammunition later, Miles had found the old prison cells that were typically hidden below the upper floors of every facility. The sign above the doorway read, “Patient Dorms”.

Miles always hated scavenging through the cells. They were littered with corpses of those no one could have saved from Murkoff’s wrath. How the corporation had managed to get away with it for so long without any confrontation from the world above ground, even before the final outbreak, Miles would never know.

The bodies were more often than not the immune left to die. Unfortunately, not even a human immune to the virus could survive twenty of Them tearing them apart piece by piece, eating away at flesh and bone until there was nothing left but a few dried up patches of blood—and _maybe_ a kidney or two.

Except for one very, _very_ lucky young man.

If Miles’ life had been a movie, he would’ve laughed along with the audience at the obvious cliché to come. Anyone could’ve predicted the outcome—the hunter and the immune, destined partners-in-crime fighting through the end of the world side by side. Maybe they would fall in love. Maybe they would kill each other.

Miles Upshur had found Waylon Park in one of the abandoned cells, alive. Alive, but dying—Miles never bothered to ask how long he’d been down there on his own. Waylon’s right leg had been chewed down enough that the only thing keeping it attached to his thigh were a couple of flimsy muscle fibers.

There were two of Them dead in the cell along with Waylon as well as a small knife. The reinforced glass protecting the cell had a large crack running through the bottom of the door, but it wasn’t entirely broken.

What Miles had done next was what most people wouldn’t have done for the poor, pathetic man clinging to life. Anybody else would’ve killed Waylon. Whether it be out of mercy or sadistic pleasure, it wouldn’t have mattered. If anyone else had found Waylon, he would be surely dead.

No, Miles did what no one else would have. He pried open the cell door, tugging a machete off of its hook against his utility belt. He didn’t bother greeting Waylon. Miles approached, raising the blade before hacking off what was left of the man’s leg.

Waylon had fainted.

Miles got to work moments later, rolling up his sleeves and wrapping the bloodied stump of a leg up in an old t-shirt before hefting the man over his shoulder. He dumped his pack onto the pavement outside, climbing back down for the still unconscious Waylon moments later.

One of Them had attempted to assault Miles beneath a bridge nearby as he passed. It was a sorry excuse for one of Them really, skin peeling and burning and god, the screech it let out was _horrible_ as the mutated human was roasted into the pavement.

Miles had discovered an old fallout shelter just outside of the city just a few months prior while he’d been making do in the basement of an apartment complex downtown—a bunker of sorts. When his companions had died, the fault of a door left unlocked overnight, he had spent most of his time keeping alive until he had found the bunker. This is where he brought Waylon, now.

Miles didn’t want anybody else in his bunker, period. As soon as he breached the threshold with Waylon over his arm, he realized that a mistake had been made.

Why had he saved the starving, crippled man—really? Maybe it had been because of the man’s baby-looking face. He was too fragile and dainty for his own good, goddammit.

Miles considered, at least, that if the man _did_ decide to cause trouble once he woke up, one leg wouldn’t get him far from the barrel of Miles’ shotgun.

However, when he _had_ awoken, Miles had started off with the most basic of questions—his name.

“Waylon Park.”

“How long were you held there?” “Do you know where any survivors may have fled to?” “How many of you did they keep down there before the outbreak?” hounded Miles, lashing the questions into Waylon like there was no tomorrow.

Waylon had passed out without a single helpful answer to Miles. Miles rolled his eyes, picking Waylon up off of the stool in order to move him onto the dusty, unused cot lying across the room. Waylon’s weight was a bit unsettling as he crossed the bunker. Had the man been heavier before?

Miles had been sitting at the far counter taking notes before he began to hear the first stirrings of the slumbering man across the room. He’d placed his pen down in favor of retrieving a slice of bread, a bowl of soup, an apple and a bottle of water from the kitchen cabinet. He had it all set up on the nightstand beside Waylon just before he’d opened his eyes, brown irises scanning his new surroundings. 

Waylon keeled over the side of the bed as soon as he could move, but he didn’t throw up like Miles expected him to. Instead Waylon laid there, leaning down over the side of the cot, a small bundle of tears falling down over his cheeks.

Fifty-six minutes later, Waylon had recollected his thoughts and had managed to eat all of the food provided. He’d seemed careful yet determined to get at least half of the tray down. Miles had sat in a chair he’d pulled up beside the bed, arms folded over his chest.

“How are you feeling?” asked Miles, starting smaller. It didn’t take long for Waylon to regain his voice, and Miles began to listen.

Miles Upshur never meant to take care of Waylon Park.

Miles searched the barren laboratory again over a month later, Waylon lying comatose inside of the bunker. At least, that’s the state he’d left him in.

The double doors to Engineering led to a bountiful collection of machines and equipment as well as a whole array of wheelchairs, crutches, and prosthetics. After Miles had finished scavenging through cabinets and lockers, he’d opted to taking one pairs of crutches as well as a prosthetic with him. He salvaged everything else worth keeping, shoving the broken and tangled bits into his backpack before sealing the entrance for good.

It had taken Waylon a few weeks after his rescue to grow well enough to move about with little to no issue. Miles had learned that Waylon was very determined to get back to the life he once had after the first week and a half, but his body wasn’t so sure. Once he had gained enough weight back to be able to stand, Waylon had tried hopping around with one hand on the wall, the other holding onto the cloth tied around his severed leg.

Miles had found Waylon sorting through the kitchen cabinets once he’d come back from the facility. Waylon turned around carefully as soon as he heard the latch to the entryway close, a double chocolate cookie hanging over his chapped lips.

“Park,” snorted Miles, letting his backpack fall off of his shoulder down onto the cold cement floor. “What are you doing?”

“Hungry,” Waylon managed to chortle through the cookie stuck between his teeth.

Miles had handed off the stolen crutches to Waylon before unpacking the rest of his gear. Some of the forgotten scraps had come in handy when it came time to fix the prosthetic leg he’d carried home.

It’d needed to be shaved down to accommodate Waylon’s size as well as what the man had left below the knee—almost nothing, but enough to lessen the workload. It wasn’t like Miles had much planned for upcoming week.

Neither of them left the bunker until Miles had finished working on Waylon’s replacement leg. Waylon had never been outside with Miles before that, ever. He’d never even tried to venture away from the bunker since his arrival. It would’ve been a chore for Miles to allow Waylon the privilege of sunlight—he couldn’t climb the ladder.

Miles knew Waylon wanted to see both the sun and the moon again, despite the troubles that came with such an enormous request. They were everywhere at night, searching for the tiniest scrap of flesh from every animal, human, and everything in between just to live another day.

When Miles had first brought Waylon into the bunker, he’d only wanted to keep him for as long as he could leak information about Murkoff into his journals. Ever since Miles had been forced to deal with Waylon’s extremely sensitive condition upon arrival, the man had begun to grow on him.

Once the prosthetic had first been fastened to Waylon’s leg, he had spent the whole day hobbling around trying to walk and jog. He wanted to go outside despite the danger that awaited, but he would be of no use scavenging if he could hardly walk.

Instead, they talked some more.

“I’d been in there for five years, ever since the facility was built,” Waylon had told him one night, adjusting his prosthetic leg beside the gas lamp. “Back then they used to take anybody they could get their hands on and throw them into a room with one of Them and see what happened. ‘S how they separated the immune from the… well…” Waylon lifted up the bottom half of his t-shirt, showing off large skin grafts and scar tissue littering the skin below his biceps. “…this was from my first.”

He yanked up the hem of his cargo shorts over his good leg, pointing to the inside of his thigh. “Fourth test. The second and third had been drug tests, nothing involving Them.”

“Do you remember them all?”

“Yes.”

A few weeks later, the duo was faced with a new challenge.

Miles tied his hair back with a rubber band, leaning over the bathroom toilet before heaving his dinner into the bowl. Miles heard Waylon shuffle into the doorway as Miles began laughing, each hysterical outburst sending another wave up upchuck into the toilet.

Miles had slept on the bathroom floor that night, re-using the toilet almost every hour as his condition grew worse and his bodily temperature soared. Miles began hacking, sneezing, puking, and his head felt like it’d been stuffed full of cotton.

The next time Miles woke up, he was in bed with a glass of water beside him along with a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Waylon had sat down on a chair nearby, a damp towel resting in the palm of his hand.

Since when had they switched roles? It’d seemed like no time had passed between Miles babysitting Waylon to coming down with a severe sickness himself.

“There’s an old pharmacy at the edge of town, right?” asked Waylon, sparing a glance at their medical cabinet. Their supplies had all but vanished since Waylon had been brought into the bunker.

Miles took a sip of his water, nearly choking on it as he laid back down. “Don’t even think about going out there on your own. You’ve only been outside to help me scavenge twice.”

“Miles, we don’t have doctors anymore. You’re going to get worse, and you could _die_ if I just sit around and do nothing but make you dinner.”

“Don’t forget breakfast. ‘S the most important meal of the day.”

Waylon shook his head, pushing himself onto his feet. “Ha-ha, funny. I’ll leave when the sun goes up so I won’t have to worry about any of Them wandering around outside. I know how to run on my leg now. Besides, I’m not giving you a choice. Try to get up and stop me.”

Miles hadn’t protested after that.

Morning, was it morning? How long had Waylon been gone? Miles didn’t know, and he didn’t bother asking as Waylon set a cup of medicine as well as more water and soup down onto the bedside table. As Waylon had walked away, Miles glared at the blood that had drenched his shirt, as well as the sizable tear in his shoulder.

“…you know you’ll get sick.”

“Does it look like I care?” asked Waylon, raising a brow as he laid down over the opposite end of Miles’ bed.

“I guess not.”

Within the next week, Miles was up and moving again. He felt better than ever, if it were possible, and in the nick of time, too. The first blizzard of the year had finally hit.

Waylon continued to sleep at the end of Miles’ bed.

“You have a bed of your own, you know.”

“Yeah, but you have the wool blanket. It’s thicker than mine.”

“Get your blanket too, then.”

Miles had tossed both blankets on top of the pile shortly after, even taking the time to dig out a spare no-sew before tucking Waylon under and slipping in beside him. It was certainly a warmer setup than the one they’d shared before.

The first couple of nights were spent back-to-back without a word spoken between them. Eventually they both learned that back-to-chest was even warmer, chest-to-chest the warmest.

Miles Upshur had never meant to fall in love with Waylon Park.

Some nights they would fill with giggles and laughs, others with whimpers and cries, sighs and moans. Miles had never meant for any of it to happen.

Yet he regretted none of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main objective of these short stories is to write to AU's and spin-offs that I've never seen (or rarely seen) in the Outlast fandom.


	3. Freak Show/Circus (Jeremy/Waylon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do we need to spray you down with a hose, Park?” (Jeremy/Waylon)
> 
> WARNING: Sexual content, abuse, dubious consent, and other dark themes.

Jeremy Blaire sat scowling, martini in hand.

He was running out of freaks.

He glanced at the records; 1944 had been their most successful run. That had been five years ago. Why the sudden decline?

Five freaks dead, two more quit. Oh, but his freaks didn’t quit. _They had ‘quit’._

Jeremy almost thanked whatever sick god rested above because finally, _finally,_ more desperate misfits had started coming in. Jeremy hadn’t been worried about their numbers at first; they were still over fifty, but being under seventy-five had been damn near unacceptable. The more freaks there were, the more cash earned by the end of the night.

Sometimes offers would be given right off of the streets from his goons. Jeremy had done it before himself; _once_ before.

It’d been more of a coincidence than anything. The little brat had been sitting on the curve of the fountain in the center of town with a sign that had read, “Will work for food!” …Jeremy hadn’t understood why the exclamation point had been needed.

It was clear why the little blonde had been cast out onto the streets. He’d gone through an entire sob-story explaining his past, but Jeremy had already known. You could tell just by looking at him. He was missing an arm and a leg.

The deformed appendages hadn’t even been received through something heroic or book-worthy event; no, he’d been born with them. His left arm was a little stub that showed his mother’s body had tried, really tried to grow the limb, but hadn’t succeeded. The opposite leg could be described similarly.

So Jeremy had decided to pick him up right off of the streets. Why not? He’d never had a freak missing more than a couple of fingers before.

And he’d proven himself useful, too. Jeremy had learned, both through rehearsals and… other means, that the young adult was very, _very_ flexible.

So he’d been added to the list. ‘Waylon Park: Half of an Acrobat’.

Jeremy sat up from his chair, dumping rest of his alcoholic drink onto the wet dirt beneath him. Red and white-striped curtains covered the tent that made up the showcase, housing the freaks that had participated in the show that’d ended only an hour and a half before.

He pushed through the blanketed doorway, adjusting his tie as he walked to a group of his misfits that sat huddled together in conversation. Some milled about the stage and catwalk, more either backstage or in the make-up and dressing rooms.

Jeremy didn’t like them staying in after-hours. Why were they here?

Lightning crackled just beyond the roof above them. A few of the younger actors shrieked in fear, running for their older and more mature siblings. The tarp was safe from the electricity; despite its flimsy appearance, the whole building had been built to be secure, and for a damn good reason.

Two men looked up from the group once they heard the footsteps of Jeremy’s approach, unraveling themselves from their knot, “Mr. Blaire?” A teenager named Dennis asked, tilting his head in curiosity.

Dennis had been with the crew for almost three years now. He was what most spectators had begun to call ‘The Stick Man’. He was all skin and bone, no amount of food able to bring up his weight further than a shocking forty-two pounds. Dennis was an active young man, though; and he sure liked to eat.

“Where’s Park.” It wasn’t a question.

The other man that had turned to him, Chris Walker, pointed in the direction of a nearby make-up room. His large finger trembled, then retracted.

Walker was the equivalent of a human pin-cushion. They couldn’t use him in every show because of said fact; but they could stick anything and everything into the gluttonous man. Swords, rods, needles; Chris had no feeling of pain or agony towards any one of the devices.

Jeremy grunted his approval, approaching the room he’d been directed towards. Just as he reached forward to draw the curtain back, another man exited. The freak shook his head, pausing as soon as he realized he was face-to face with Jeremy Blaire.

Miles Upshur was a well-built brunette with crazy hair that fell just past his shoudlers, left untied for the night. Jeremy could barely see the broken-man’s eye (yes, eye; he only had one of them) through the locks of dark brown as he puffed, attempting to blow them away. A wet, dirty towel had been slung over the man’s shoulder.

Jeremy could feel his brow twitch as the other man raised his eight-fingered hands, crossing his arms over his chest. Miles scoffed, attempting to blow the bothersome locks away again and failing.

“Blaire,” The twenty-nine year old greeted, turning a cold shoulder on him. “I think your plaything’s already worn out for the night.”

Jeremy glared, shoving Miles out of the way. “Get lost Upshur, or its back on the streets.”

So he did.

Jeremy watched Miles leave, waiting until he was sure the man was gone to enter the make-up room. He pushed the striped curtain aside before making sure it fell back into place behind him.

The room was small, consisting of only one bench and a vanity-chair combo a few feet away from the curtain. The vanity’s mirror was lined with bulbs much like a young star in Hollywood’s would, casting an eerie glow over the circus stripes as thunder boomed from above.

Jeremy could see Waylon’s reflection in the mirror; the twenty-two year old was sitting hunched over, fist over his mouth and leg twitching above the earth-covered floor his bare foot rested upon. The blonde looked dirty, mussed; his hair was pulled back into a small tail, bare arms coated in dark grime.

“Park.” Jeremy more or less stated, taking a seat on the empty bench beside the vanity. Waylon’s eyes flickered over to him through the mirror, nervous. Nervous like the day he’d been brought into the freak show.

That day had been one of the best days Jeremy had ever had the pleasure of experiencing. He preyed on fear and nervousness, helplessness and despair. Waylon was full of it.

The night’s actors had been sitting around on the stands, waiting for instructions. He’d walked onto the stage with the back of Waylon’s tattered shirt in hand, dragging him up the stairs and onto the polished floor.

“We have a new freak to perform with all of you,” said Jeremy, pushing Waylon forward. The blonde stumbled on his crutch through the sheer panic of it all. “This is Waylon Park. He’s going to be one of the acrobats.”

About half of the bleacher’s population clapped, the other half staring blankly ahead. Jeremy watched a red flush blossom across Waylon’s cheeks and neck, grinning from the feeling of power it gave him.

“Upshur, you’re going to be responsible for training him.”

The brunette previously mentioned leapt down, two at a time before climbing up onto the stage. He hooked his arm around Waylon’s, making sure the blonde had his crutch ready before pulling him out and away from Blaire. Jeremy cracked his neck, watching them go. Waylon looked over his shoulder helplessly, eyes locking onto Blaire’s one last time before the two disappeared around the corner. He’d never forget that look. It drove him wild.

“Is everyone here for tonight’s act?”

“Gluskin hasn’t showed yet, Mr. Blaire.”

Eddie Gluskin, their magician and sword-swallower. Through backstage gossip, Jeremy had been so unfortunate as to hear the man’s ‘tragic’ story. Supposedly someone had suck into Gluskin’s house in the middle of the night and tattooed his body from the shoudlers down. They’d knocked him out cold, then got to work.

Despite the stained skin, many of the freak show’s actors had found Gluskin quite attractive. Any time someone would come in with fresh clothes, Eddie would make sure the sleeves were rolled and his bowtie fastened. Somehow it added more appeal to their spectators. Jeremy didn’t understand the broken minds of those surrounding him.

It turned out that Gluskin had been brought into a holding cell for getting into a fight at the local bar. As much as Jeremy hated looking at the man, Gluskin’s acts just raked in the dough like it was nothing. He’d bailed him out easy, kicking his ass back into the show as soon as they walked out onto the street.

Once Waylon had been brought to the show, it took less than a month for Jeremy’s hatred of Eddie Gluskin to boil into something awful. Waylon was _his_ and his alone, but Gluskin didn’t know how to take a hint unless it was handed to him physically.

Jeremy had watched Waylon shiver and shake as Gluskin passed by his trailer, the tattooed man sparing not even a single glace his way. He had a broken nose, black eye and bruised torso to remind him of what would happen if he did.

Jeremy patted his leg, blowing a low whistle through his teeth while gesturing with his head. Waylon didn’t speak a word as he stood up on his crutch, plopping down onto Jeremy’s lap like he was made for it. Maybe he was.

Waylon sniffed, sulking over once he felt a hand carding through his hair. Jeremy let him sit; his hair felt just as dirty as his skin had appeared.

“Do we need to spray you down with a hose, Park?” Jeremy asked casually, removing his fingers from Waylon’s hair.

The blonde shuddered, practically curling in on himself as he spoke. “N-no, sir.”

Jeremy released a long sigh, another bolt of lightning crashing down from above. Waylon flinched in his lap, a small mewl tearing its way from his throat. Blaire couldn’t help the laugh that followed the show of fear.

“Then why are you so...” Jeremy dragged a finger down Waylon’s arm, showing off the dirt that had come with it. “Dirty?”

It wasn’t the first time Jeremy had found Waylon covered in dirt. The first and only other time it’d happened, he’d had an explainable reason for it. Waylon hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before his third act, continuously falling off of the ropes and poles as a result. He’d been filthy by noon.

“Shower, Park.” Jeremy commanded, yanking Waylon off of the dirty grass outside of his trailer.

“I-I can um, if you just-”

Jeremy grabbed Waylon by the back of his neck, forcing him up the metal stairs and into the trailer. He kicked the door shut, walking the blonde over to his small bathroom. “I’m not going to ask you twice. You’re going to be clean in the next two minutes or you’ll be sorry.”

Waylon emerged approximately one minute and thirty seconds later while wearing nothing but a towel that’d been wrapped around his waist, soaked hair dripping in rivulets onto his slick shoulders. He trembled where he stood, crutch under his armpit and arm wrapped around his torso. “I, I’m done.”

Jeremy had occupied the small couch pushed against the wall while he’d waited for Waylon, not actually keeping track of the time that’d ticked by on his watch. He was feeling generous.

He stood, approaching the smaller man in only two strides. Waylon’s frightened gaze trailed up to meet his, body finally ceasing all previous twitches and shakes.

“Well then,” said Jeremy, peeling the towel away. “You’ll just have to prove that, won’t you?”

Waylon hadn’t gone on stage that night. His act had been easily replaced by Frank Manera’s own acrobatics; Frank was a blind man with a disgusting amount of hair growing over what seemed like every inch of his body. His constant toothless smirk always left Jeremy feeling disgusted.

No, Waylon hadn’t gone on. He’d been dirtied again, this time through a means different than the pure nature residing outside. Waylon had barely been able to walk by the time Jeremy left him, his fatigue causing him to pass out after only the third round.

Jeremy had gone for five.

What could he say; he was a man of simple things. Such as Waylon Park, twitching nervously on his lap as he questioned him about his hygiene.

“You’re not going to lie to me,” Jeremy hissed, grabbing Waylon’s chin between two of his fingers, forcing the blonde to look at him. “You remember what happens when you lie to me, don’t you?”

Jeremy observed from backstage as Pyro, a freak that enjoyed _setting himself on fire_ approached the battered and bruised blonde in a rush. “Park, are you okay? What happened to you? Trager! Get over here!”

Waylon sobbed, rubbing his runny nose fervently. When his hand retracted to look at the damage, Jeremy was pleased to see his digits coated in a thick layer of blood.

Pyro kept pressing Waylon for answers even as Trager approached and began to patch him up. Waylon cried and shook through the whole process, finally answering the freak’s questions with a simple, “I was in town, and three guys beat me for my pocket change.”

Waylon was allowed to lie to other people, including Pyro, all he wanted; but not him. _Not to him._ If Jeremy had discovered that something similar to the cover-up Waylon was producing had actually taken place, there would be three less people alive today.

Waylon nodded, staring down at his foot once Jeremy decided to release him. After a few beats of silence, the blonde mumbled. “Andrew fooled around with me after the show.”

As soon as Waylon’s words processed and their full meaning came to surface, Jeremy’s hand shot to the smaller man’s thigh, squeezing hard. “And you _let him?”_

“N-no!” Waylon sobbed, struggling with his only hand to pry Jeremy off of him. “No, I didn’t want it, please! I tried going out an hour ago but then it had started raining and he, he came out of nowhere…!”

Jeremy’s grip slackened, if only a little. Waylon cried out in relief, retracting his hands. After another few moments of silence, Jeremy leaned forward. “Did he do it outside, in the rain?”

Waylon nodded frantically.

The next question Jeremy asked carefully, allowing the anger in his voice to show. “Did he fuck you?”

Waylon remained still, unmoving. Jeremy clenched his teeth, shoving the crippled man off of him and onto the dirt floor below. He leapt down in an instant, pinning Waylon’s arm and leg to the ground as he demanded, louder, “Did he _fuck you?”_

“Yes!” Waylon cried out in agony, a steady stream of tears leaking down his cheeks. Good. He should be scared.

Jeremy panted, drinking in the sight of a dirtied, sobbing Waylon beneath him. He closed his eyes, letting a soft chuckle escape his lips as he leaned down, planting a kiss to Waylon’s forehead.

Once both men had been given time to regain their breath, their eyes trailed up to the roof of the tent. There was no more pattering over the curtains. No more booms and cracks.

“Go back to your trailer, Park.” said Jeremy, sighing in aggravation as he fixed his shirt and stood upright. “The storm is over.”

The next day, town security found the bloody, beaten, rotting corpse of the freak show janitor named Andrew. He was strewn over the trash cans in a back alley near the local library.

And not a single person spoke of it since.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About this AU:
> 
> -The word 'Freak' is used to describe the characters because Jeremy's a prick and that's what those shows were referred to back in that time period. My own views are _not at all_ expressed in this short, but rather the views of the characters in it.  
>  -Basically all of the Outlast variants are the actors, all other characters (Like Andrew) are usually in charge of clean-up and janitorial problems, as they should be.  
> -Jeremy being the head-honcho of the whole show
> 
> Again, if anyone has a suggestion for a short, feel free to let me know! I have a long list of stories I want to write for this collection, but if I really like the idea I'll get right on it because I have no self control lol.


	4. Demon (Eddie/Waylon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “C’mon Miles, I haven’t slept a wink and I’m not in the mood to discuss my sex life for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.” (Eddie/Waylon)
> 
> Explicit sexual content ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank [SocialDeception](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialDeception) for giving me many ideas for this particular AU, along with helping out when it came to the smut because I’m awful at writing it and am trying to ease my way into it one step at a time.

The sun was brighter than usual that morning; birds flew in between the trees of the campus, and students quietly milled about the premises. It was a peaceful day, overall.

“Wait, you’re still a virgin? Since when?”

Well… it _had_ been.

“Since forever, Miles!” Waylon squeaked, shoving his best friend’s shoulder. “Why is it such a big deal, anyway?”

“Uh, because you’re twenty-one and legal? And being twenty means drinking, frat parties, and lots of sex.” Miles shrugged, grinning from ear-to-ear like the idiot Waylon knew him to be. “It’s actually kind of adorable.”

Waylon’s cheeks flushed a deep red, eyes narrowed in anger, “Shove it!” He snapped, hitting Miles even harder. “Maybe it’s because I don’t _want_ to have sex!”

Miles raised an eyebrow, eyes glinting. Waylon looked away, shrugging his bag further up his shoulders. “Shut up.”

“Uh-huh,” Miles chuckled, widening his strides as Waylon sped up. “So, you never got any from Lisa?”

Waylon sputtered, horrified. “No! Besides, we only dated for three months.”

Miles rolled his eyes, but his grin still remained ever-present. “Whatever. But if you’re looking for someone to hook you up with a good package, you know where I am.”

“I’m not a one-night stand kind of person like you,” Waylon scoffed, running a hand down his face. Were they close to the rental yet? They should be by now.

Miles’ smile finally fell, “Ouch; you cut deep, Waylon.” The brunette gasped, placing a hand to his chest, and the grin returned.

The further they walked down the road, the fewer students there were hanging around. After a few more minutes of silence between the two, Waylon was relieved to finally see their house coming into view. He let out a long-awaited sigh of relief, scurrying up the front walkway.

Miles had been Waylon’s roommate ever since they’d started their freshman year of college. They had been friends for even longer, dating back to early elementary school. Even way back then, Miles had always been trying to get him to explore the world around them and try new things.

Although growing up, that usually entailed smaller things like riding the Goliath at Six Flags, or doing a full three-sixty on a swing set. Now Miles’ interests included going to bars, jumping off of ledges and into lakes, and of course getting laid.

Now, Waylon knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was to wait until he found someone special to lose his virginity too. Back in high school, he’d thought his crush Lisa might have been the right person for it; but they’d broken up soon after they’d both agreed that they worked better as friends. And they did. She still talked to him daily.

Miles, on the other hand, was all for getting drunk and banging any attractive human figure he saw fit. Waylon wouldn’t always say human; once he’d had to drag Miles’ ass from a party and had found him screwing with a Spencer’s doll in the spray-painted bathroom.

That was just how their friendship worked. Waylon would pull Miles from the stupid things, and Miles would pull Waylon from the serious things. Although the former was typically more common than the latter.

But still, Miles was always ready to help him out and have his back when the time came. Even when he was drunk and/or high. In fact, Miles was an even scarier beast to deal with when he _wasn’t_ sober. The intensity of his fists increased tenfold like Thor himself had decided to take possession of his body for the night.

One instance Waylon would always remember was the first time Miles had dragged him to a gay bar downtown. Waylon had been their designated driver, obviously, so he’d chosen to drink soda and fade into the flashy walls while Miles danced around with everyone and anyone he could get his hands on.

One guy had seemed nice enough; brown hair slicked back stylishly, his composure neat and orderly; hell, he’d almost looked like he should be at a wine tasting party rather than a bar. But he’d taken an interest in Waylon, and as he started off light conversation the blonde couldn’t really bring himself to complain.

Waylon never really remembered the guy’s name. Maybe it had started with a B, or a J, but he would never really know. All he knew was that the guy had started getting a bit too grabby for his liking and he needed to leave. He had to find Miles.

“I should probably get going,” Waylon interrupted, clutching his glass of Pepsi with a shake to his hands. He brought the drink up to his lips, taking a deep breath. “My friend is probably getting himself into trouble by now. I need to go find him.”

“Aw, what’s another few minutes?” The man tried, his voice dipping an octave as he effectively cornered Waylon against the wall. “I’m sure your friend already hitched a ride with someone else; I saw him just an hour ago in the bathroom. Besides, you look like you could use the company.”

Waylon shuddered as the stranger slid his hands over his waist. He pushed back against the man’s chest in retaliation, cheeks flushed. “I-I’m fine, thanks. I just want to find Miles.”

The man hadn’t liked Waylon’s show of aggression, apparently; he grabbed each of the blonde’s arms, slamming him against the wall. “You’ll do as I say, you little shit.”

Waylon cried out in pain as his hands clenched even tighter; he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, squeezing shut as the man leaned closer towards him, way too close for comfort. The blonde prepared himself for a forced kiss that… Never came.

Waylon’s eyes shot open as soon as he heard a shout in front of him, the man’s hands forcibly removed from his body. He stared with a mix of fear and amazement as Miles snarled, fist buried in his shirt.

“You stay the fuck away from my friend; if he says no, he says _no_ you twat.” Miles hissed as he raised his other fist, knocking the man across the room and into the counter.

Several glasses clashed and a few people jumped back in surprise, but Waylon only caught a glimpse of the fallout as Miles grabbed his wrist, tugging him towards the exit. “C’mon Waylon, I’m wasted. Let’s go home.”

Waylon smiled fondly at the memory as he unlocked the front door, tossing his keys into a basket by the entrance. He held the door open for Miles as the other man approached, closing it quietly behind them.

Their house wasn’t particularly big; it was a single-story home with one bedroom they both shared, a living room and kitchen mix, a bathroom, two storage closets and a pantry.

There was also a crummy unfinished basement below that had nothing in it except a few old boxes and a wobbly card table for the nights when Miles brought people home to play poker.

As much as Miles bitched about the crampy-ness of it all, Waylon actually liked their living arrangements. Miles would go out enough that Waylon had the place to himself most of the time, anyway.

“Everyone’s meeting up at Walrider’s tonight for smokes; wanna come?” Miles asked as he dumped his things onto the living room floor, hands immediately reaching for his jean’s pockets.

Waylon picked up the wallet resting on the kitchen counter, whistling to get Miles’ attention. He tossed it to his friend with ease, taking a seat on the couch before opening his bag. “I still have to finish that stupid coding project for Andrew’s class, remember?”

Miles looked through his wallet carefully, slipping it into his back pocket as soon as he was done. “Why do I ask…?”

“Because you’re never gonna give up your quest of getting me to try a blunt?” Waylon responded, placing a pen over his ear as he pulled out a used notebook and his laptop. “-Which is never going to happen, by the way.”

“Worth a try,” Miles cackled, walking into their shared room. A few minutes later he returned, now clad in a black leather jacket and significantly darker jeans. “I’m gonna try to convince one of them to pay for the tab. May god give me his blessing. See you later?”

“Just go, Cheapy the Cheapskate.”

Miles let out a full-bellied laugh as he slammed the front door on his way out. Then it was just Waylon, alone with his thoughts.

The blonde worked for hours after that; he’d been behind on his senior project, and he would rather not get dogged by the pervert of his nightmares in the morning. Waylon heated up a cup of ramen in between typing and his research, quickly losing his sense of time. He wasn’t even sure when he’d fallen asleep.

When Waylon woke again his eyes widened, and he searched around the darkened room for the time. He realized after only a moment his arms were up in the air as if protecting the front of his face. He sat up, lowering his hands.

A small piece of paper fell from his forehead; Waylon rubbed his eyes, reaching for his phone on the coffee table. The time read 3:46 AM as he swiped the device to unlock, using it as a light source before reading the paper.

It was a small sticky note that read, _‘You might wanna clean yourself up, you rambunctious boy you ;)’_

Waylon was confused for only a split second; it wasn’t until he got up did he realize what the note meant. His skinny jeans shifted as he stood, a sticky and awkward sensation sending a warm shiver up his spine.

“Augh,” He whispered quietly as he brought his hands up to his face, hiding his embarrassment from no one. What the hell had he dreamed about to cause _that?_

Even as he cleaned himself up in the shower, Waylon couldn’t think of a cause. He stood with his head resting against the wall, water beating down his naked body as he tried long and hard to think of what could’ve possibly caused him to have a wet dream. And his mind provided no answer.

How could a person _do that_ and yet have no context or explanation for it? Waylon almost _wished_ he had context…

God, he was really desperate, wasn’t he?

He’d cleaned up all of his belongings after that, crawling into bed without disturbing his roommate. Waylon was usually a light sleeper, too; why hadn’t he heard Miles come home? Was it because of the dream?

Waylon stayed awake throughout the remainder of the night, his mind and thoughts racing. He didn’t even realize it was eleven in the morning until Miles shifted in the bed across from him, arms stretching over his head.

The blonde didn’t acknowledge him, choosing instead to keep his eyes plastered to the ceiling. He just hoped Miles would walk out without bringing up what he’d seen the night before.

“Heeey,” Miles greeted sleepily, approaching the side of Waylon’s bed. “Morning, sunshine. You have a fun night last night?”

Waylon groaned, rolling further into the tangle of his sheets. He threw an arm over his eyes, curling in on himself. “How about we talk about something else? Jesus, you just woke up Miles…”

His friend laughed as he crawled into bed beside Waylon, wrapping his body around the smaller man’s before beginning to run his hands through blonde hair.

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you jizz your pants before,” said Miles, beginning a series of small braids through the blonde’s growing locks. “Was it a good dream? Was it with anyone we know?”

“I don’t remember anything,” Waylon finally mumbled, sighing. “C’mon Miles, I haven’t slept a wink and I’m not in the mood to discuss my sex life for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.”

Miles’ hands stopped; he rested comfortably behind Waylon before finally sliding out of the bed, sighing. “Eh, alright. I’ll give you this one. Want some pancakes?”

Waylon rubbed his face tiredly. “Sure, whatever.”

With that, Miles disappeared out of the room and down the hall. Waylon finally rolled over, glancing towards the doorway. Sometimes he loved Miles, and other times he really, really hated him with all of his being…

The rest the day passed by much easier than usual; at least for a day like Tuesday. Miles had decided to agree to a movie night with Waylon, the two binge-watching as many Marvel movies as they could. They’d both passed out during Iron Man 2, legs draped over one another’s.

Waylon woke up before Miles in the early hours of the morning. He propped himself up on his elbows, taking note of the light glow of sunrise through the front windows. He groaned, pulling himself up into a sitting position before untangling his legs from Miles’.

_Squelch._

Waylon narrowed his eyes, gaze trailing down below his waist where he wore only a pair of egg-patterned boxers and generic white socks. The boxers were wet.

“Fuck,” Waylon cursed as quietly as he could, being extra-careful as to not wake Miles. He felt his neck growing warm as he tip-toed back into their bedroom, grabbing a fresh set of clothes all the while trying to forget.

This time, Waylon could remember a few images as they flashed through the back of his mind. A dark room, candles, a tall figure that approached calmly; and blue eyes. Painstakingly blue eyes.

That’s all Waylon could recall, no matter how much he thought about it; no matter how hard he tried, even.

The remainder of the week continued in a similar fashion; waking up with dirtied pants and new pictures to store for later use. By the third day of torment, Waylon had begun sleeping with an extra layer of boxers just as a precaution if Miles were to yank the sheets off of him one morning. He didn’t need any more of his friend’s harassment.

Soon, scenes started to become more and more detailed. The room he was brought to during his state of unconsciousness became one whole image. It was a bedroom with fine drapery and intricate carvings in the walls, the colors almost undetectable due to low candlelight that spread throughout the room. A huge canopy bed rested in the center of everything, and the floors were made of shiny polished wood.

The person; or, more likely, the _thing_ that appeared with him was still overall an enigma. All he could remember was a huge frame draped in dark robes… And blue eyes.

By the week’s close, Waylon finally had a dream where he could remember bits and pieces of what had went down. Although it wasn’t a full reel, there was enough to go off of. The thing, a man; he finally had a better understanding of what it was.

It looked like a man, but some qualities were not something men had. A long black tail that was kept wrapped around his left leg at all times, and… Wings. Dark black wings that would form only once he was through with Waylon.

Waylon remembers being used; being fucked. Being forced to submit to this strange half-man with blue eyes. And he _liked it._

He starts to remember more. Neat black hair, pale skin, and _huge_ muscles.

Waylon sat at the kitchen counter, elbow to the table and a hand pressed against his mouth. He was thinking hard, staring out the nearby window.

“Waylon, are you coming?”

The blonde jumped, looking over his shoulder. There was Miles, standing with the front door open, eyebrow raised.

Waylon sighed, moving away from his chair. “Yeah, hold on a second.”

When they returned that night, Miles locked the door behind them.

“Alright, you’re acting weird.” said Miles, tossing the keys onto the counter and placing his hands on his hips. “You’ve been really quiet for the last two weeks. Quieter than usual.”

Waylon gulped, shifting his way into the kitchen as a distraction. Miles didn’t help, choosing to follow, “I’m serious,” The man continued, sliding on his socks across the floor and over to Waylon. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m fine,” Waylon spat in a rush, searching their cabinets for… Ah, Frosted Flakes. “‘Just been thinking is all.”

Miles hummed, leaning back against the counter while he watched Waylon pour his cereal. “Mm, yeah no, that’s not it.”

“I said it’s nothing,” Waylon bit back, pouring milk into his bowl as soon as he decided he’d dumped enough cereal in.

Miles grunted, poking Waylon’s sides until the other man was forced to move away from the bowl, “C’mon, you know you want to tell me…” He sing-songed as he slipped his hands under Waylon’s t-shirt, tickling his sides.

“Miles, no-!” Waylon begged between laughs, trying desperately to slap his friend’s hands away. “Okay, fine, just stop!”

Surprisingly, Miles did stop. The brunette placed his hands on his hips once more, raising both of his eyebrows. “Well? Spit.”

Waylon leaned against the counter, letting out an exhausted breath. He ran a hand through his hair; he could already feel his cheeks growing warm as he spoke. “I keep having these dreams where this dream-man, god, demon; hell, I don’t even know what he is. But they keep coming to me, and I can hardly remember any of them but then I wake up and-”

“Yeah, I figured something like that was happening,” Miles chuckled, pulling a banana off of the rack beside him. “You’ve been twitching and moaning in your sleep for the past two nights.”

“Oh god, have I?” Waylon squeaked, covering his face with his hands.

Miles shrugged, taking a bite of his banana. “Yeparooni. But I was serious last week when I said I can hook you up.”

“And I told you no,” said Waylon between mouthfuls of cereal. “I’m not doing it.”

Miles didn’t respond; instead, he slid around the counter and down the hall. Waylon ignored him, choosing instead to focus on eating his cereal.

His roommate reappeared moments later, this time with a thick book in hand, “If it's any help, and since you’re talking about sexy demons and stuff,” The brunette huffed, placing the book on the counter. “I got this from Pyro as a gag gift last year. Jokes aside, it’s actually a pretty serious book.”

Waylon skimmed over the cover, eyes narrowed. “…Seriously?”

The front cover made it quite clear that the book was about demons and how to summon them; all from Miles being ridiculous... again.

“Hey, I believe in the stone-cold facts,” Miles shrugged, stepping out of the kitchen. “Might as well look it over. What’s the harm?”

So Waylon sat on the living room couch hours later, a bottle of booze and the book in-hand.  
He flipped through each page with curiosity. Even though he didn’t believe in heaven nor hell or any of the creatures that resided in either, Waylon had always been a fan of folklore and mythology. He studied each page with a swig of his bottle.

According to the book, some demons looked like strange creatures of the night, while others looked almost human-like. They gave decent enough descriptions of the different demons; although some did seem to be a bit lacking.

He was nearing the back of the book when he paused; on one page was a sketch of another demon that fell under the category he had flipped to: sexual relations. The title gave a name Waylon couldn’t quite read, but the word ‘incubus’ was easily legible. But the picture… _The picture._

It was like a much more vivid version of the he-demon he’d been seeing whenever he closed his eyes for the last few weeks. The sketch was of a muscular man draped in dark robes with two large black wings spread wide from his back. There was a tail drawn in that wrapped around the demon’s leg, and both his arms and wrists were decorated with thick rings and bracelets.

As for the human-looking side of him, he had a sculpted face and dark hair that was only present atop his head, almost like the sides had been shaved down. He had one arm raised, fingers pointed downwards while the other remained by his side.

Waylon read the description; overall the demon worked like an ordinary incubus, but will only appear when summoned and, despite mentioned ‘drawbacks’ of its abilities (He was curious to know what those drawbacks would entail), it will do everything in its power to sleep with the one who had summoned it.

 _‘Causes sleep paralysis and slips into its victim’s dreams.’_ Well, at least that explained a few things.

As the page continued, it described the demon dragging its victim back into hell with it, where it would apparently lavish them with jewelry and gifts… _‘Well how would you know that unless you went yourself, hm author? HMM?’_

Waylon found himself staring back at the image for a few minutes too long. He quickly marked the page before slamming the it shut and placing it on the coffee table. He was quick to collapse against the couch, flicking off the lamp beside him. He couldn’t get the picture out of his head no matter how hard he tried, cheeks flushed as he fell into an uneasy sleep.

There wasn’t a clear, precise moment where Waylon knew he had fallen asleep, yet once he opened his eyes back up, he knew without the shadow of a doubt that he was dreaming.

He was in the same room as before; Intricate carvings covering the walls, flickering lights, and that familiar canopy bed. Waylon swallowed thickly.

The walls were red, he realized; a deep maroon that extended to every single item in the room as if it had all been drenched in blood. More than that, the flickering lights made the carvings come alive, but every time Waylon tried to focus on the moving images, they stood still. The whole room was unnerving, and Waylon wondered if he could will himself to wake back up.

“You came to me.”

Waylon didn’t have time to react. Not to reply, and not to run away. As soon as the words were spoken, he felt hot breath on his neck and strong hands encircling his waist from behind.

Waylon’s hands shot up in surprise, and he was shocked to find he could actually touch whoever was behind him.

_‘Not whoever,’ _Waylon thought._ ‘You already know who this is.’_

"I knew you'd come to me," the demon murmured against Waylon's neck.

Maybe Miles had drugged him. That seemed like the most plausible explanation at the moment, because Waylon had never had dreams like these before. Everything seemed- He wanted to say _real,_ but it was more than that. It felt like some kind of hyper-reality, and he was all too aware of the firm presence behind him, the quiet metallic clanks whenever the demon shifted and his bracelets moved together- and more than anything else, the _heat_ radiating off his body. 

“Look at me,” the demon said, although it felt more like a command than an actual question. _“Look at me.”_

It was definitely a dream, because the world hitched around Waylon when he turned, skipping like a record before he was finally facing the demon at last.

The demon looked like the glimpses of previous dreams, like in the book, and Waylon gazed into eyes that were so blue they should feel icy, yet they were burning with intensity and want.

The demon had a strange, triumphant expression on his face, and he moved his hand up to Waylon’s face. Like his gaze, his touch was burning, and he tilted Waylon’s head up.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “You’re so very beautiful.”

His thumb moved from Waylon’s chin to his bottom lip, where he carefully trailed the outline of it.

“Let me have you.”

Waylon’s head was swimming at this point, lost in a haze of arousal so strong he felt his knees go weak. He forgot all about the book, forgot all about drawbacks and heaven and hell, and relaxed against the demon’s hold.

“Take me,” Waylon gasped, and dared to place his hand on the demon’s chest. “Please, take me.”

He thought he saw the demon smiling before the world skipped again and their lips were meeting.

Waylon groaned into the kiss and trailed his hands down the demon’s muscled abdomen. There was a brief moment where he wondered how far he was allowed to go, but then the demon deepened the kiss, and all rational thoughts dispersed once more.

He felt like a man drowning, and he clung to every inch of skin exposed to him, moaning incoherently when the demon slipped his hands under the hem of his hoodie.

The flickering lights seemed to have gained in intensity, because he swore he could feel them dancing across his skin. At least until he dared open his eyes and he realized flames were actually licking his skin, burning off every single article of clothing until he was standing completely naked.

He could definitely feel the demon's smile against his lips this time.

With a low growl, the demon pulled away and watched Waylon for a moment, pupils blown and lips parted, before he stalked against Waylon again.

“On the bed,” he commanded, and unlike the first time, there was no mistaking it for anything but a command.

Waylon walked backwards until he felt the bed hit the back of his knees, and he gingerly sat down, glancing up at the demon towering over him.

Not hiding the smirk, the demon let his robes fall down on the floor behind him.

Now, Waylon had seen people naked before. He’d seen Miles trodding naked from the bathroom and into the kitchen more times that he cared to count, but at the sight of the body in front of him he swallowed loudly.

Every part of him was powerful and hard, like he was carved of marble, and Waylon was sure the demon could read every aching thought running through Waylon’s head.

“Tell me you want this,” the demon murmured instead, and came closer.

“I want it,” Waylon mumbled, cheeks flushed. This close he could feel the heat radiating off the demon’s body again, and Waylon started moving backwards up towards the head of the bed, making room for him.

With a smirk the demon put a knee on the bed, his heavy weight making it dip, and crawled until he was perched above Waylon.

His face was so close, those strange burning eyes scrutinizing Waylon, full lips tilted to a smile, but all wrong. There was nothing humorous about that smile; it was ravenous and feral, the sight of it enough for heat to pool further in Waylon’s lower abdomen.

“Tell me you’re mine to claim.”

A voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like Miles started rambling about how this was a bad fucking idea, but all Waylon was able to process was the thigh between his legs, and how the demon suddenly had Waylon’s arms pinned above his head.

“I’m yours.”

Waylon hadn’t paid much attention to the wings on the demon’s back, but at his words they extended until he could no longer see the room around them. Just black wings and pale skin.

Truth be told, Waylon didn’t know all that much about demons or incubi, but he wasn’t wholly comfortable with the way the demon stared at him, like he wanted to devour him completely.

With another, much darker look, the demon put his burning hands on Waylon’s chest and dragged his fingers down, digging blunt nails into Waylon’s flesh. It didn’t hurt. Not like it would have in real life, anyway. Now it felt more like every pain receptor was hard-wired to Waylon’s groin.

When the demon leaned down to lick the crease of his thigh, Waylon couldn’t stop the moan, and he dug his own fingers into the demon’s forearms.

“More?” he whispered hotly against Waylon’s straining erection.

“More,” Waylon groaned. “Please. Want-”

That’s how far as he got before the demon’s lips enclosed his cock, and with a sweeping motion swallowed him to the base.

The world went white for a moment. A swirling white fog Waylon thought he’d be lost in forever, until the world bled back into reality- or whatever this place was.

Waylon had watched porn. God knew he had. But he had never seen anyone do it so effortlessly. The demon seemed made for it, made for hollowing his cheeks just so, swirling his tongue from head to base, and Waylon wondered what else that body was made for doing.

Not that he had much time to wonder, because the demon soon had him reduced to a pathetic, whimpering mess, breathlessly begging to be fucked. And all the while, the demon had his eyes firmly fixed on Waylon’s face, gauging his reactions so he could do more of everything that made Waylon weak, until Waylon was trembling under his fingers and tongue.

“Want,” Waylon groaned weakly. It wasn’t even a complete sentence, but it was all he knew how to say. “Want.”

“What would you do for it?” The world had hitched again, because the demon was suddenly straddling Waylon’s chest, his knees restraining Waylon’s arms. “What would you do?” he repeated, rubbing the head of his cock along the seam of Waylon’s mouth.

“Anything,” Waylon breathed, and opened his lips for the demon.

He seemed happy with the reply, and eased his cock into Waylon’s mouth.

Despite his inexperience, despite all his doubts and fears, Waylon forced himself to breathe through his nose and take him, inch by inch, into his mouth. It was a dream, and in dreams he could do anything.

The demon was watching him again, gaze dark and unfathomable, as he slowly fucked his mouth.

“So beautiful, darling,” he murmured. “So beautiful for me.”

The demon leaned back, still thrusting into Waylon’s mouth, allowing him to watch his body move in the flickering light. See powerful muscles shift and roll under marble skin, each calculated roll of his hips showcasing a body that seemed made for fucking. Waylon wondered if the heat burning through his own body was also burning through the demon. Even if he was inexperienced, he was enthusiastic, working lips and tongue around the demon’s cock, groaning and humming around it.

“I think you’re ready,” the demon whispered, and touched Waylon’s chest before raising his hand up to his own.

His fingers were bloody, Waylon realized, but he couldn’t crane his head enough to see if it was his own blood. In the course of a second he realized it no longer mattered, because when the demon trailed his fingers over his own sternum, blood started dripping down his chest and stomach.

It should have been terrifying. It should have been a lot of things, but Waylon moaned at the sight of rich, crimson flowing down pale skin, black wings extended even further, and the demon’s chiseled face lit up in arousal. It should have been a lot of things, but all Waylon could think of was wanting this creature to finally claim him for his own.

“I’ve given you plenty of opportunity to turn back.” The demon moved his bloodied hand down to Waylon’s face, and forced two fingers into Waylon’s mouth along with his cock. “I won’t give you another.”

Waylon lapped at his bloodied fingers, feeling it trail from the corners of his mouth and down his jaw.

The demon pulled back, then, and in one swift movement Waylon found himself chest to chest with him, their bodies pressed together. The demon was licking into his mouth at this point, and when he pulled away, Waylon realized his chin was dripping with blood as well.

Then he knocked Waylon’s thighs apart and sunk down between them. If Waylon had any rational thought left, he’d shy away, but as it was he arched into the touch instead, groaning when he felt the blunt head of the demon’s cock press insistently against his ass.

He was certain, absolutely certain, that there was no way the demon would fit in him, but then something shifted and Waylon felt his body give, allowing the demon complete access to his body.

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, not so much because of the pain but the sudden, powerful flux of feelings. He clung to the demon, digging his fingers into surprisingly yielding flesh, and pressed himself closer. The demon granted him that wish, wrapping his arms around Waylon’s back and raising him up into his embrace, before cocooning him in his powerful wings.

And then he started moving.

If Waylon had thought the previous thoughts and feelings all-consuming, it was nothing compared to how it felt when the demon moved in him and placed kisses against his neck.

“G-God,” Waylon gasped, knowing fully well God had very little to do with any of this. And sure enough, he felt the demon smirk against his lips.

Waylon arched into each thrust, feeling the easy slide of it, the unexplainable fullness. Each thrust had him want more, closer, faster, just more, more, _more._ He wanted to laugh out loud or cry, but instead he threw his head back and groaned.

“Darling,” the demon panted, snapping his hips forward before pulling back. “Darling, I’m never letting you go.”

And it seemed a good enough trade, Waylon thought. Eternity spent like this, head and groin burning with arousal, nothing but the touch of the demon, the smell of him, the feeling of him filling up every last inch of Waylon’s body.

“Yeah.” Waylon pinched his eyes shut, mouth falling open. “Please don’t let me go.”

“Never,” the demon mumbled, biting down on Waylon’s neck. “Never, darling. Never.”

At this angle, he was stroking Waylon’s prostate for every slick thrust, and Waylon tensed and dug his fingers further into his flesh. There were no boundaries in dreams, and soon he felt his nails break skin. The demon didn’t flinch, just stared up into Waylon’s face with a truly unsettling expression on his face.

The lower part of his face was covered in blood and darkness, but his eyes shone like he had a fever.

Again it struck Waylon that he should be afraid. He should be terrified, but instead he felt something build in him, a powerful crescendo, something that would push him over the edge both figuratively and literally.

“Be mine,” the demon panted, repeating the words for each calculated thrust of his hips. “Come for me.”

Waylon hadn’t even touched himself, and neither had the demon, just the painfully teasing way his cock was trapped between their bodies, rubbing against the demon’s muscular abdomen for each roll of his hips, but he could feel himself inching closer to that edge.

“I own you.”

Another thrust, another gasp, another inch closer to the edge.

“You’re mine, forever.”

Waylon silenced him with a kiss, but somehow he still heard the demon’s voice inside his head.

_‘Your life is in ruins now. You’ll have whatever your heart desires, all the gold and treasures you would ever want, but you belong to me. I’ll show you such exquisite pain, my darling.’_

Waylon pulled away with a gasp, and tried to decipher the look on the demon’s face, but the demon simply dug his fingers in harder and started pumping his cock into Waylon’s body and then there was nothing else.

“Come for me,” the demon demanded. “Let me own you.”

“Yes,” Waylon groaned. “Yes, yes, I’m gonna come.”

“You’ll never be free.”

So close now. So very close.

“You gave your life away.”

It was building, building, building.

“Mine.”

And then the room exploded in white light. Everything was pulsing in time with Waylon’s release, his body contracting around the demon’s powerful cock until he, too, was coming. Waylon thought he could feel it, his body raw and sensitive from his own orgasm, feel the demon coat his insides with fire.

“You gave your life away the moment you said yes to me.” The demon nuzzled his face in Waylon’s neck, and this time the fog in Waylon’s head had cleared enough for him to truly understand what the demon had tried to tell him all along.

Waylon tried to pull away, but the demon had him wrapped tightly in both wings and arms, and suddenly the look of triumph on his face made total sense.

“You’d-” Waylon started, but the world had started fraying at the edges, and he felt gooseflesh rise on his skin. Time was running out. “Why?”

“I’ll love you forever.”

Waylon felt his body jerk, and reality started slipping through his fingers.

“You gave it all up for me, willingly.”

He couldn’t fight it any more than he could his orgasm, and with a gasp he found himself falling back onto the canopy bed only to awaken on the other side in his own bed.

* * *

Waylon felt hot, dirty, and tired all at the same time. He decided to avoid any and all human interaction as he sat on his bed with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, drowning his sorrows away with a Netflix stream on his laptop.

Oh god, what the hell was he going to do? It was clear the dreams weren’t going to stop. Had this demon somehow possessed him, and is now forcing him to cry out in the middle of the night? Had the book been right?

The blonde wheezed, sticking his spoon back into his ice cream only to realize that there was none left. Waylon groaned around what he still had in his mouth, pushing himself up out of bed.

Luckily Saturday meant no classes, and no classes meant Miles was out either partying or investigating some crazy conspiracy he’d seen online earlier in the week. Based off of the fact that it was the middle of the day, Waylon chose to go with the latter.

As Waylon trudged down the hall and into the kitchen, he couldn’t help but think back to the dream he’d had the night before. How everything had felt so real, so vivid, so…

He tried to stop his train of thought at the very last second, but it was too late. Waylon glared fiercely down at the tent forming in his pants as he picked up the pace, slam-dunking the empty tub into the trash can. He was done. He was _so done._

Waylon leaned against the counter, finally caving in. He slipped his hand down the front of his pants, letting a soft groan fall from his lips as he allowed contact with his fast-growing issue.  
He was just one huge bundle of fucked up, wasn’t he?

Waylon tried to get the deed done as quickly and efficiently as he could, but he just couldn’t help his wandering thoughts as he continued to picture the demon’s perfect, handsome face in front of him. The way he’d looked, buried deep inside of him.

It didn’t take much more than that to get him off. Waylon let his mouth fall open as he shuddered, catching his release in the palm of his hand before collapsing against the counter. He retracted his hand, scowling. As he went to wash the evidence away in the sink, the lights flickered, snapping off for only a moment before re-adjusting to their natural glow.

Waylon paused, turning off the sink before looking over at the book Miles had given him. It was still resting on the coffee table. He stood straighter, approaching.

...He knew what he was going to do.

Waylon snatched the book in his hands before bolting to the basement door, yanking it open. He slammed the door shut behind him as soon as he was in, absorbed in the eerie light cast against the concrete walls.

As he descended the stairs, the small room came into view. Once Waylon was at the bottom, he plopped himself down at their crappy old card table before opening the book to the page he’d marked.

1\. The Sigil of Baphomet drawn on the floor in your own blood, and the demon’s name.  
2\. Five black candles, one on each point of the pentagram.  
3\. A gift.

That was it? He could work with that.

He didn’t bother changing out of his plaid sleep pants and sweatshirt as he drove to the local Walmart. He tried to avoid the judgmental stares of others as he searched for the black candles requested.

Waylon wasn’t sure what the book had meant by ‘A gift’, but he simply assumed the item to be something of his own ownership and not some cheap store-bought item.

When Waylon finally returned home, he went straight to his room in search of anything of value he could offer the demon. _‘C’mon, there’s gotta be SOMETHING here.’_

After enough digging through bins underneath his bed, Waylon found something that seemed like it would be enough; his class ring from when he had attended Mount Massive High. His parents had gone for the basic sterling silver with his birthstone as the centerpiece when purchasing it, so it was nothing over the top. Good enough.

Moving back into the basement with the new items, Waylon sat down on the floor with a small pocket knife in hand. He looked down to his palm, wrist shaking.

“This is a bad idea, this is a bad idea, this is such a bad idea,” Waylon repeated aloud as he finally caved, slicing into the palm of his hand.

Blood immediately sopped up from the wound. Waylon was quick to catch as much as he could, attempting to draw the same symbol from the book onto the cement floor as he forced the red bodily fluid to drip down towards his index finger.

The name in the book was almost completely illegible, but Waylon couldn’t be sure if it was due to the possibility of the text being written in another language. Either way, the book didn’t look _that_ old, so Waylon copied it exactly as he saw it.

It turned out that painting with blood was a lot harder than movies and games depicted it. Waylon didn’t have several buckets of his own blood though, so he worked with what he had. He was determined to get to the bottom of his frustrating dreams. And hey, if he just happened to get fucked by a sexy demon along the way, then that was fine too.

He didn’t believe the author when he’d said the demon would try to drag him down into hell, though. If a demon really did that, then the author probably wouldn’t have been able to create the book. That was his logic, anyway.

He felt a few tears fall down his cheeks from the pain steadily increasing in his palm as he finished up marking the floor. The symbol wasn’t a perfect replica, but he wasn’t an artist.

Waylon huffed as he placed the candles on each point of the pentagram, feeling around his pockets for the lighter he’d grabbed along with the knife. He accidentally burned the tip of his finger as he began lighting the strings, but only began to care once he was done.

After another trip upstairs for some basic first-aid, Waylon placed his ring in the center of the circle. He was careful as he did so, making sure he didn’t smudge any of the drying blood as he dropped the jewelry into the center.

He half-expected the floor to light up as soon as the ring came in contact with the pentagram. But no; nothing happened. Waylon pressed his lips together, standing up to turn off the lights. 

He sat down at the edge of the symbol once he was done, patting his knees through the ongoing silence.

After another minute and a half of nothing, Waylon’s stomach dropped. He began to accept the possibility that he’d just seen the demon’s face in a book long ago, and that’s the face he pictured in his dreams. All of the text from the book was made-up. It made sense.

Waylon sighed, slumping over in front of the burning candles. “Maybe Miles was right. I should’ve known this wouldn’t work…”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the bloody symbol against the floor burst. Waylon yelped, crawling back from his work in fear of what he’d done. He raised his arms to cover his face, shaking uncontrollably as a figure flickered to life in the center of the room. “Oh, _god…”_

He continued to tremble even after the fire from both the blood and the candles blew out, leaving the basement to be drenched in total darkness. Waylon lowered his arms, squinting across the room. It was too dark to see anything.

Suddenly, something incredibly warm grasped his wrists, slowly making its way up his arms. Waylon nearly screamed as he stood, stumbling backwards until he felt the light switch press into his upper arm. He was quick to flip the device, head whipping back around to find the cause of his sudden heat.

He covered his mouth and stifled another scream as his eyes locked onto a fearsome-looking man standing at the opposite end of the room. The man took up a significant amount of space; although he couldn’t be taller than 6’5, compared to Waylon’s lithe body standing at 5’3 … He was _huge._ And even more intimidating. Had he noticed that before?

The man- demon- matched the picture in the book and the image from his dreams almost perfectly. The only difference was that he wore looser robes than the book had drawn in, and he lacked the same black wings that appeared off and on. But the tail was still present, along with the jewelry and bracelets and… And Waylon’s class ring hanging on a chain around his neck.

“Please don’t kill me…” Waylon gasped, sliding back against the wall until he was sitting down once more.

The blonde tried scooting further into the wall as the demon approached. He kneeled down in front of Waylon, bringing his hands to the smaller man’s wrists, “Oh darling,” The man sighed, helping Waylon to his feet. “I don’t want to _kill you.”_

Waylon shuddered against the demon’s hold, pulling his arms away as gently as he could before jumping to his feet. _‘Ohmygoditworked, it worked it worked it worked…’_

The blonde was suddenly beginning to rethink his previous actions. All along he’d wanted to see this demon; to see what it had really wanted to do with him this whole time. Waylon had thought he’d wanted it. Did he still want it…?

“N-no,” Waylon stuttered as the man took a step forward. He pressed as close to the wall as he could before mumbling, quietly. “N-not that.”

“Not what?”

Waylon paused, finally drawing enough courage to meet the demon’s eyes. “Are… Aren’t you an incubus?”

The demon chuckled and god, Waylon loved his velvety voice as he responded. “I am.”

“T-then doesn’t that mean that you, ah,” Waylon sucked in a breath, trying to compose himself. “Doesn’t that mean someone would summon you for… for sex?”

The incubus let out another short laugh. “Precisely.”

Waylon fidgeted, trying to stop the shaking of his limbs. “...What if they’re a virgin?”

The incubus approached, placing a hand against the wall beside Waylon’s head. “Then they’re a virgin, darling.”

The blonde slid away, managing to sneak around the demon as he blurted his next question out. “What’s your name?”

“Do I make you nervous?” The demon asked, moving in sync with Waylon’s steps.

“You’d make me less nervous if I knew your name.” Waylon half-answered without stuttering, mentally cheering himself on at the feat.

The man seemed to think the question over before he smiled warmly. “Gluskin. Eddie.”

Waylon paused, furrowing his brows. “That sounds like the name of just some regular person.”  
“Do I look like a regular person?” Eddie asked.

Waylon looked him up and down, once again noting the tail and robes. “…I suppose not.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Eddie continued, gesturing with a ring-covered hand. “Do I make you _nervous?”_

The blonde bit his bottom lip, looking to the floor. “Y-you startled me.”

His voice died in his throat as Eddie cast his eyes to the card table instead. There were a few boxes piled to one end; the demon decided approach it, a curious smirk plastered across his face. Waylon took a step back as he watched, unsure of what the incubus was up to.

Eddie lifted the lid of the box at top of the pile, his grin growing even wider. He looked back to Waylon, eyes glinting with something that made the blonde all the more nervous.

Finally, the demon spoke. “Do you like chess or spit more?”

Waylon furrowed his brows, “Spit…?” He asked, shifting on his feet. “Like the card game?”

Eddie reached into the box, pulling out a chess board and a deck of cards. His grin grew even wider, and if Waylon squinted… There was a form of kindness behind it. Maybe he knew.

Minutes later, the two sat across from each other at the card table, chess board set up properly with five pieces already switched off from their original positions.

“Y’know, when I had chosen to summon a demon, this isn’t exactly what I had pictured.” 

Waylon mumbled, moving a white pawn forward one space. “Your turn.”

Eddie was quick to move one of his rooks, folding his arms over his chest. “And what was it that you had pictured, darling?”

Waylon flushed as he looked over the board, moving a knight to capture one of Eddie’s pawns. “You know what. You’ve been invading my dreams against my will.”

Eddie laughed as he took the board in, continuing their game, “I had asked for permission. You gave it to me.” Suddenly, his eyes burned, lustful. “You gave your life to me.”

Waylon didn’t respond. He couldn’t. So he allowed them both a little peace and quiet; at least, until he felt the urge to ask more questions.

The blonde coughed awkwardly, staring down at the table. “So what are you getting out of playing chess with me, exactly?”

“Simple,” said Eddie, blue eyes boring into Waylon’s. “If you win, you get to stay here- and I will give you your one greatest desire. But if you lose, then I take you with me, and you _will_ be mine.”

The color from Waylon’s face drained at the sudden deal. No; it _wasn’t_ a deal. It never had been. “As in, t-to hell?”

“Underworld.” Eddie shrugged, capturing one of Waylon’s bishops. “That means your moves matter, my darling Waylon. They mattered ever since you allowed your voice to escape into the Sigil. They mattered since you allowed me to claim you.”

Waylon gulped, then paused. “Wait- How do you know my name? I’ve never told you what it was.”

“You didn’t need to,” said Eddie, holding up the ring still strung around his neck. _‘Waylon Park’._

They continued to play for how long, Waylon didn’t know. He’d lost track of time as soon as he began to lose far too many pieces to his liking. In between moves, he’d made a mental list of both the pros and cons of losing- if he lost.

Pros: No more worries about bills, taxes, and survival. Probably intense sex with a demon he may or not be ready for? No more death to worry about.

Cons: Never seeing Miles again. No more of everything earth offered. Said demon-sex might scare him. A lot. _A lot._

Waylon groaned, bringing a hand to his forehead as he was forced to move his king elsewhere. In a way, saving the king meant saving himself. Why had he summoned a demon, again?

“Feeling ill, darling?” Eddie asked as he calculated his next move. “If so, we could always jump straight to checkmate.”

As soon as Eddie moved his piece, Waylon shifted his king again. He ran a hand down his face, closing his eyes. “No, I- I can do this.”

“You seem so hesitant,” Eddie continued, watching Waylon with curiosity. “-Yet you lead me right to you.”

Waylon said nothing, looking away.

Eddie leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “Surely there’s a reason you wanted to see me outside of your own mind…”

Waylon reached forward as his queen was taken, fingers shaking as he blocked his king with a bishop. He retracted his hand just as fast, barely avoiding Eddie’s grab for his wrist. “M-maybe there was.”

Eddie pushed his chair back with a dull creak, maneuvering himself over to Waylon’s side. The blonde squeaked when he felt Eddie’s breath over his shoulder, the demon moving his own bishop before whispering, “Checkmate.”

Things were dead silent for all of two seconds before Waylon’s phone began buzzing in his pocket. He jumped in fright, meeting Eddie’s eyes. The incubus nodded. “Answer it.”

The buzzing ceased as soon as Waylon pulled the device out of his sweatshirt; a text message from Miles. _‘Pyro’s dragging me down to a bonfire. Won’t be back until morning. :/’_

“How convenient,” Eddie whispered beside Waylon’s ear.

Waylon closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “What do you want?”

Eddie hummed, placing a hand on each of Waylon’s shoulders, “No,” He said, rubbing his thumbs into the blonde’s neck. “What do _you_ want?”

The blonde opened his eyes, shifting in his chair until he was facing Eddie, “Um, I- I want…” He tried to avoid shivering as he let his next words go. “...I want you, Eddie.”

 _“Darling,”_ Eddie breathed as he yanked Waylon straight out of his chair, pinning him to the cold basement floor.

Waylon barely managed a surprised gasp before Eddie’s mouth was over his. He quickly allowed himself to give in to both the demon’s demands and his own needs; primal instinct took over, and he let go.

He tried, oh how desperately he tried to tear the robes away from Eddie’s burning-hot skin, but the style of the clothing just didn’t want to work in his favor with their current position, completely infatuated with one another.

Eddie chuckled into Waylon’s mouth as he grabbed the hem of his hoodie, yanking the garment up and over his head.

“You’re so beautiful,” Eddie moaned, moving his lips downward to lavish the skin of Waylon’s neck.

The blonde let a small groan free from his lips when he felt one of Eddie’s hands on his thigh, pulling the fabric of his pants down at an agonizingly slow pace. He could barely think, much less notice the same dark wings over them that had appeared in his dream.

“Is this really how it ends?” Waylon barely managed as he lifted his hips, trying to find some sort of friction to work with.

Eddie breathed heavily, pushing himself up on his elbows enough that he was able get a good look at Waylon’s flushed features. “It ends with you beside me; forever. We will be so beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was curious about the ending, yes, Waylon did in fact lose :)
> 
> Also, check out [SocialDeception's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialDeception) works, she’s an amazing author. Her help was greatly appreciated.
> 
> This short was inspired _heavily_ by Hellfire - Barns Courtney.


	5. Hitmen (Miles/Waylon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Say hello to the world’s shittiest hitman, muchacho.” (Miles/Waylon)

_“Oh, I see a man at the back as a matter of fact, his eyes are as red as the sun! And the girl in the corner let no one ignore her, ‘cause she thinks she's the passionate one! Oh yeah!”_

Miles stuck his hand into the bag of cheese puffs beside him, trying his best to avoid staining his gloves with the orange powder. He shoved several into his mouth at once, curd-filled cheeks humming along with the next line of lyrics as they blasted through his headphones.

_“It was like lightning! Everybody was fighting! And the music was soothing! And they all started grooving! Yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah!”_

Miles spotted a limousine pulling onto the road a couple hundred feet beneath him. He piqued a brow, tossing his finished bag of puffs into the trash bin that’d been so graciously left on the rooftop. He pulled one of the buds out of his ear, yanking the dark hood of his sweatshirt over his head as he ran for the fire escape.

_“And the man in the back said everyone attack, and it turned into a ballroom blitz! And the girl in the corner said boy I want to warn you it’ll turn into a ballroom blitz, ballroom blitz! Ballroom blitz!”_

As the brunette jumped down the emergency stairwell towards the road, he continued to mumble along with the music until he landed securely in a nearby alley. He peeked around the corner, spotting two well-dressed, unidentifiable people standing across the street.

All he could tell was that they were wearing local patrol uniforms, looking sharp and frightening to any outsiders. Definitely the people he’d been on the look-out for; he could see a small emblem on the larger figure’s suit, showing off the symbol of the same gang he’d been hunting down.

Miles turned his back to the brick walls, raising the volume of the microphone in his other ear before shifting back into the darkness.

“Can’t you shut those two bitches up?” A man’s voice growled, volume amplified by Miles’ headset. The brunette shook his head, taking out his other earbud in favor of listening to the conversation.

“It’s only one now you moron,” Another voice, female this time, hissed back. “You really need to learn to control yourself.”

The man coughed, “Well maybe if he hadn’t been _struggling_ so hard…”

“It doesn’t matter, let’s just get them inside.”

“Heyo!” Miles called across the street, waving a hand as he made his appearance known to the two officers. _Fake_ officers.

His wide grin was the only thing he’d kept visible to the criminals; the woman tilted her head to her companion, who was quick to pull out a heavy-loaded gun once they both locked eyes with Miles’ weapon.

A bullet shot past Miles instantly; he ducked under the backside of the limo, cursing under his breath as the woman retreated into the vehicle. He had to assume she was looking for a weapon, now.

“Say hello to the world’s shittiest hitman, muchacho,” Miles cackled, popping out of his cover just as he pulled a second pistol out from the utility belt over his waist.

He hopped up onto the trunk of the car, aiming both guns squarely at the male’s head. He fired each gun twice, missing one shot while the other three hit the trafficker in his ear, nose, and forehead.

The man collapsed into a heap instantaneously, blood oozing out onto the sidewalk. Miles looked away; just because the sight of blood wasn’t a total turn-off, it didn’t mean he always enjoyed _looking at it._

The woman threw herself out of the backseat, shirking under the hood of the car once she spotted Miles. Miles hopped down instantly, barely avoiding the sudden brigade of bullets shot as the woman used the pavement’s flat surface to her advantage.

Miles shook his head, reloading his cleanest pistol with the only magazine he had left before tossing its useless twin to the side. He sprung back up onto the roof of the limo, climbing up and over only to see the woman looking for his feet under the back of the car.

Miles sprawled himself against the metal, grinning, “Hey,” He greeted, meeting the woman’s gaze for less than a fraction of a second before he fired, blood splattering against both the cool pavement below, and on Miles’ hoodie.

“Augh,” The hitman cursed, jumping down to the ground. He tugged at the wet spray against the fabric of his sweatshirt, hissing, “Well, that’s just great. And I have a date in an hour, too. ‘Guess who had a fun night?’”

It was then that Miles was forcefully dragged out of his own meddling thoughts and back into the cold harsh abyss of reality. Another figure shifted, sitting inside of the limo’s open door. Whoever it was had a bag over their head, ripped clothing, and a harsh leather tie around their wrists.

Miles frowned, tugging the bag off of the person’s head. The woman underneath it gasped, dragging in long breaths of air. Once she noticed Miles however, she jolted, scooting back into the limo—well, as much as her bound wrists and ankles would allow her, anyway.

“Don’t worry,” Miles assured, placing the pistol onto the roof of the car and raising his hands as a show of peace. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he sighed, picking the gun back up as soon as several clanks boomed behind the worn-down door behind him.

Just as he placed his finger over the trigger, a man burst outside, butter knife in-hand. The choice of weaponry had Miles burst out laughing as he fired, almost missing the kill over how harshly his muscles contracted through fits of laughter.

Once he was sure the now-gory mess of a man was dead, he turned back to the woman. Somehow, she looked even more frightened than before.

Miles wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, a few soft chuckles escaping his lips as he gestured to the body beside him, “You can’t tell me that wasn’t funny. He was huge, and the knife was _tiny!”_

The woman didn’t seem to be reassured any, eyes sparkling to life as Miles tossed the gun away, “Alright, understandable,” the brunette sighed, glancing into the limo to see another bound hostage, a man, unconscious in the seat beside her.

Miles pulled a temporary phone out of his back pocket, dialing nine-one-one. “Okay. Let’s get you two to a hospital.”

* * *

Eight-forty-fucking-two.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Miles sighed, sliding into the booth opposite Waylon. The restaurant was dim and the music loud, but the deep frown carved into Waylon’s features was as unmistakable as if it were broad daylight.

“Twice this week, and it’s not even half over, Miles,” Waylon huffed, running a hand through thick blonde locks.

Miles cringed, lacing his fingers together over the table, “I know, I know, I’m sorry…” he babbled, but the look Waylon gave him told him that he was having none of it.

Nonetheless, the blonde closed his eyes, leaning back in his seat, “Whatever. I ordered a while ago, thank the lord for busy nights or you’d be sitting here with cold food.”

Miles piqued a brow in interest. “I don’t get to pick what I want to eat?”

“Consider it a punishment for being forty-five minutes late.”

“Fair enough,” Miles cackled just as a waiter walked by, placing a small alcoholic beverage in front of Miles and a Sprite in front of Waylon.

Miles glared at the drink, then Waylon. “…You didn’t get me a Bud Light, did you?”

“Nope.” Said Waylon, rolling his eyes as he began sipping on his drink.

The blonde was clearly avoiding his gaze, sipping his soda while staring off at the other tables surrounding them. Miles sighed, louder this time, but it still didn’t deter Waylon’s focus from elsewhere.

It was the sixth date he’d been late for within the last month. The first time he’d been late for only twenty minutes, and it had been because of a particularly gory basement lab he’d had to trudge through in order to kill one rich asshole for another rich asshole.

The second time, he hadn’t shown up at all, sending Waylon a quick text that he wouldn’t be able to make it. A particular story had been given to him at the last second from his office’s manager, and he hadn’t realized until he was trying to get an interview with HR that he wouldn’t be coming back home for another three hours. And it only continued from there.

He felt bad; really, he did. Waylon had been in Miles’ life for a little over two years, and in the beginning, he’d always blown him off to go on some crazy adventure. Once he found out what it’d been doing to Waylon, and how much he’d started caring for him in return, Miles started planning journalistic outings and missions more carefully.

Waylon knew he was an investigative journalist. But he didn’t know Miles had a side-job full of pain, murder and violence as well.

The truth was, Miles never wanted Waylon to know. He could see a future with the blonde, and he really was in love with him, but the fact still remained. Miles _did not_ want Waylon to know he was a part-time hitman. He didn’t want to do that to him.

Some days, the truth became harder and harder to fight off.

Finally, Miles slouched over, defeated. “Look Way, I’m really sorry about earlier. I know I want to tell you some bullshit excuse about work, but that doesn’t even matter because I’m the idiot that chose to go out on the stupid interview when I’d already had plans.”

Waylon’s eyes darted to meet Miles, brown eyes wide and alert. Miles reached forward, grabbing the hand Waylon wasn’t using to hold his cup, “Can I make it up to you when we’re back home…?” the brunette purred, leaning further over the table.

Despite the dim atmosphere, Waylon’s blush conquered all. The blonde was quick to withdraw his hand, crossing his arms over his chest. “…Fine…”

If Miles was being honest with himself, Waylon was the love of his life. He almost hated the thought; it was a terrible, terrible thing to be a hitman and keep a partner at the same time.

The risk of his side-job was high when Waylon had become involved. That’s why he’d bailed out on more than half of their dates when they’d first started seeing each other. He didn’t want any harm to come to Waylon; if Miles got himself into some deep shit and had to go into hiding, Waylon would be their first target. 

He almost wished he could just be a journalist, and not some murder-crazy mercenary with a tight agenda to fill against gangs and traffickers. If he hadn’t gotten involved with Blaire all those years ago, if he’d just pushed through the beginnings of adulthood like a normal person, he would’ve been fine.

But instead, he was a killer, a hunter, and the only way out would be to kill the man that made him this way.

But to Waylon, all Miles did was go to work investigating crazy paranormal conspiracies and local tragedies, come home, and love him like any normal couple would. That’s what Waylon did; Miles loved how Waylon’s life was so easy, so _perfect._

And he was, as a human being, perfect. His beautiful blonde hair, his blush when Miles made suggestive commentary, and the way that small array of freckles over his cheeks just made the whole world a little bit brighter. All perfect.

Too bad things couldn’t always be that way.

Instead of dwelling on the situation further, Miles grinned, grabbing his glass off of the table and taking a quick swig of the orange-colored liquid inside. Immediately his lips puckered, nose wrinkling.

“Bud Light, you dick,” Miles choked. Waylon only laughed in response.

* * *

It was eight in the morning when Miles heard his phone buzzing on the bedside table.

He groaned, rolling over onto his side all the while blindly reaching for the obnoxious buzz beside him. Once he felt the cool outer casing of his phone, he squinted, glancing at the caller I.D.

_‘Call from: Langermann’_

“Shit,” Miles cursed under his breath, tossing himself out of bed as softly as he could as to not disturb the man sleeping beside him. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants off of his dresser before pulling them on, walking out into the hall towards the living room.

“Upshur!” The voice on the other end of the line immediately shouted, sounding like a deafening roar through Miles’ sleep-riddled haze. He pulled the speaker back, just barely making out the next sentence. “I found him.”

Miles’ eyes widened, “What?” he asked, perplexed. He couldn’t be talking about _him,_ right…?

“Jeremy Blaire, I found him,” the man breathed in the speaker, his voice obviously filled with excitement. Miles could hear the shuffling of papers on the other end of the line before Langermann continued, “He’s in a hideout facility on the west side; I think they’re getting ready for another bid. He’s not going to be there for very long. End of the day, tops.”

The line was silent for a few more seconds before Miles found his voice. “How did you find him?”

A loud ‘Psh’ vibrated against the speaker, “That dumbass was walking through security feed after security feed around two AM this morning. I traced him to the facility once I confirmed it was him. Are you ready to go?”

Miles cringed, glancing back towards the bedroom down the hall. The door was cracked open halfway, but it was enough to be able to see Waylon snuggled into both sheets and pillows; definitely still asleep.

_“I’ll be around all day tomorrow; I promise.”_

The frown over Miles’ face only deepened as he processed what Langermann meant. _“Are you ready?”_ Gear. Blaire. Mission. 

“I can’t,” Miles whispered into the line.

The sound of papers dropping was evident as Langermann hissed, “What do you _mean_ you can’t?! We’ve been hunting this guy down for five years! Now we have him, and you’re not going to _go?”_

“I can’t,” Miles bit back, louder. “I can’t keep doing this to... This could be bad.”

“You know who this is, Upshur,” Langermann sighed, “You know this guy is the most-wanted sex trafficker alive. You _know_ that he’s the reason your mom died. You know all of this… And you’re not gonna go?”

Miles ran a hand down his face, groaning, “Look Langermann, if he’s in town, then this isn’t going to be his only visit. We can trace him again, if he made that mistake once he could do it another time…”

“It’s Waylon, isn’t it?” said Langermann, voice hollow.

The brunette spared another glance to the bedroom door, making sure Waylon was still sleeping before replying, “Look Blake, I’ve been going on way too many missions already. I’ve been blowing him off again, and I’m sick of feeling sick over it.”

The line was silent for a beat. Then, a soft whisper echoed in his ear. “I told you that you should’ve stayed alone, Miles.”

A small click and a dial tone was quick to follow. Miles cursed under his breath, tossing his phone onto the kitchen counter. He retreated back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

Miles brushed several loose locks of brown hair out of his eyes as he took in the sight of a gently sleeping Waylon on the mattress before him. The brunette’s shoulders slumped as he crawled back into bed behind Waylon, wrapping his arms around the man’s torso before burying his nose in his neck.

The blonde stirred, long lashes fluttering open once Miles began pressing wet, drawn-out kisses against his neck, “Morning,” Waylon mumbled, stretching both his arms and legs as Miles wrapped himself tighter around him.

Waylon chuckled at the arms snaking around his waist, tilting his head back, “Everything okay?” he asked curiously, brows furrowing when he heard a heavy sigh flow from Miles’ lips.

Miles said nothing, only adding to the blonde’s concern. Waylon shifted around until he was facing his boyfriend, shoulders shrugged. “Miles, just tell me already. I know that look.”

“Job wants me to go out today,” Miles groaned, resting his chin atop Waylon’s head. 

As hard as Miles tried to ignore it, he could feel Waylon’s body tense, the low exhale from his nose sending a cold chill across his chest, “…Are you going?” the blonde asked, voice barely a whisper.

“Fuck no,” Miles spat, shifting away from Waylon in order to place a gentle, calloused hand on his neck. “I told you, I have the day off. It’s not like they can fire me.”

He hated that lying was that easy. _Hated_ it.

“If it’s important,” Waylon spoke up, “Then maybe you should go.”

“Nope,” Miles chuckled, pulling Waylon against his chest. He sat up over the sheets, lifting Waylon into his arms despite the blonde’s protest. “You’re gonna be stuck with me aaaall day, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Waylon chuckled, shoving Miles’ face away before disentangling himself from the other man’s limbs. “Oh, what a day this’ll be.”

* * *

“Come on Langermann, you’ve gotta have something on him,” Miles seethed through clenched teeth, leaning over his partner’s computer.

“I told you,” Blake snapped, sending Miles a wicked glare, “You should’ve gone yesterday when he was _there.”_

Miles crossed his arms over his chest, jaw clicking into place as he began pacing the small, dimly lit room. “You know as well as I do that the whole thing seemed more than a little suspicious. Jeremy Blaire, slipping up in front of cameras just like that? He wouldn’t.”

“It’s a pretty shady area; it’d make sense to assume security was low…” Blake suggested, leaning over his metal chair.

“Jeremy Blaire doesn’t _assume.”_

Blake narrowed his eyes, “Well, there’s no use in arguing about it now. Setup or not, he’s _gone.”_

“He doesn’t just disappear, either.”

“Can you shut the fuck up for _five seconds_ and listen to what I’m saying? Because twenty more young men and women are missing, and only one was found by local police. They chased after the abductors.”

Miles heaved, “Well maybe this would all be easier if we could just find their base of operations.”

“Easier said than done, we’d need an entire _team_ to send in there. And I don’t know if you’ve picked up on this, but--” said Blake, gesturing between the both of them. “There’s two of us. And I don’t do all the fighty-shooty stuff. I’m just the info guy.”

“We’ll figure something out,” said Miles, heading for the door. “I have to get home, anyway.”

Blake turned back to the computer screen, tapping the pencil in his hand against the metal desk. “…I still think you should leave him.”

Miles paused in the doorway. He had to restrain himself from decking the other man right then and there.

“It’d be better for you. You’re getting way too close to him.” Blake warned.

“Fuck you, Langermann.” Miles choked out, slamming the apartment door shut.

Once Miles was back to his shared flat with Waylon, he locked the door, putting his keys on the kitchen counter. The apartment was pitch-black; Waylon wasn’t home yet?

Miles piqued a brow, reaching for the light switch beside the front door. Once the small radius of the living room was illuminated, the brunette immediately reached for the knife in his back pocket.

Glass was strewn throughout the room, small droplets of blood gracing the majority. It cracked under Miles’ feet as he moved, a small piece of ripped-up paper meeting his eyes.

He reached down, flipping the slip over. ‘ _To: The man hunting me. Thanks for the whore :^)’_

Once Miles’ eyes skimmed over the letter, it felt as if time stood still in those few painful seconds before he reacted. The brunette ripped the paper in half, a painful roar of anguish tearing its way from his throat. He grabbed the lamp standing beside him, tossing it to the floor and barely registering the crack of the light bulb before he was on the move.

“You mother-fucker,” Miles cursed under his breath, storming into the bedroom before grabbing the first backpack he saw, tossing it onto the bed. He grabbed his phone, dialing the only number on his emergency contact list before placing the device between his shoulder and ear.

He had already packed his black-out clothes and thrown a dark leather jacket on by the time the person on the other end picked up, “What the fuck do you want now-?”

“Waylon’s fucking gone, Blake,” said Miles into the receiver, trying and failing to keep his voice level. “Blaire knows who I am. Fuck, he might’ve known this entire goddamn time. I’m coming back to get my gear, and we’re gonna catch this fucker.”

A small grunt of approval met Miles’ ears as the hitman slung his pack over his shoulder, heading back to the front door, “Alright, Upshur. But you better haul ass, because you know they’re holding another auction tonight. I don’t know if they’ll be able to get him there in time, but-”

“If you say one thing about how you were right about staying hidden, Blaire won’t be the only person on my hit list tonight,” the brunette seethed, pulling the phone out from his ear and pressing the bright red ‘End Call’ button.

Fifteen minutes and one messy fit in Blake’s living room later, both men had finally calmed down enough that they’d be able to go through stolen security footage and actually get something out of it. Miles hadn’t exactly been the kindest to Blake’s furniture.

Blake cracked his knuckles, typing in his computer password before opening the local security feeds. He pulled up the street view surrounding Miles and Waylon’s shared flat, “Alright, let’s see,” he mumbled, hitting backspace over the keyboard.

Miles watched intently as rewound footage sped past him, so fast that he could barely make out the people walking along the street until a few frames zoomed by with several dark figures standing on the side of the road.

“There!” Miles yelped, slamming his hand on the desk beside the computer mouse. “Play that again.”

Blake nodded, hitting the spacebar before fast-forwarding at a much slower pace. Suddenly three men appeared on-screen, all standing beside a slick black car.

There was no audio to go along with the video, but nonetheless Miles watched with a new hatred bubbling in his gut as two men emerged from the building; one was a larger fellow carrying a much smaller body in his arms.

The other was undoubtedly Jeremy Blaire. He didn’t even bother hiding his face to the public eye as they crammed the body into the car, the four goons piling inside along with it. In fact, Blaire looked directly into the camera they were observing before sliding into the passenger seat, movements so graceful it was almost as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Okay,” Blake spoke up, hitting that pause button before turning back to Miles, “I’ll give you this one; it’s definitely a set-up.”

Miles huffed, “Good,” he grumbled, adjusting the collar of his jacket. “Follow the car. I wanna know where they are.”

Blake raised a brow, “Well wherever it is, they can’t be there anymore. This was from six hours ago.”

“Just do it already.”

The next half hour of the men’s time was spent looking through over a hundred different feeds, fast-forwarding and rewinding all the while trying to keep up with Blaire’s car without losing it, or the vehicle being replaced with another, similar-looking car.

“We’re never gonna be able to find it like this,” Blake finally sighed, leaning back into his chair. He gave Miles the most pitiful look he could conjure, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s just no way, Miles.”

“There has to be _something,”_ Miles shot back, determined to come to a resolution.

“I’m sorry Miles,” said Blake, hitting the home key, leading the computer screen back to the current-time footage. “We’re going to have to find them a different way. There’s really not much we can do at this point.”

“If we wait any longer, he could be sold, and he’s not going to come back.”

“What is there to do, Miles?! Can you think of anything? Because I sure as hell can’t!”

Miles crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head down. “…I know what you want to say.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence after that. Miles closed his eyes, hoping he could just forget the world and all of the problems it was causing him; what had happened in the past, what was currently happening-- and what was to come in the future.

All he’d wanted to do was to protect Waylon from the fuckers he’d been trying to get rid of so they’d have a better life—A free one. If only he’d anticipated that Blaire had been watching them the whole time.

How long could he have been watching him? How long had Miles remained ignorant to the imminent danger lingering over his shoulder? Blaire could’ve been observing him ever since he left his militia; ever since he’d _joined_ the militia.

Miles remembered poverty; the humiliation, the beatings it took to raise him from the mud and into a soldier; a soldier who could do the dirty work for one big corporation in the sex trafficking industry. Anyone who stood in their way, murdered.

Blaire had probably been waiting for Miles to show his weakness. He’d had to have known ever since Miles first hooked up with Waylon that one night; gone to that stupid club, bought a stupid drink, and flirted with a stupid guy who should’ve been anywhere but there.

He couldn’t just steal Waylon away and sell him off right then and there. No; it all made sense. Blaire had to have been waiting all throughout those two years Miles had been with Waylon, waiting for them to grow even closer, even more protective of one another.

And that’s when he went in and delivered the killing blow. He was going to get Miles to come to him; one way or another.

“Uh… Miles?”

Then Miles would die for betraying him. And Waylon; who _knew_ what would happen to him?

“Miles.”

He could already be gone, whisked away by some…

“Miles!”

The brunette jerked where he stood, meeting Blake’s frantic eyes with a hint of alarm himself. His partner turned back to the screen, pointing to a new window he’d opened. There, was live footage of one of the many shadier local bars down in the lesser-populated areas of the city.

Blake turned back to Miles, gesturing frantically to the screen. _“Look.”_

And he looked. He watched as a man lingered outside of the front entrance near one other party-goer, cigarette in-hand. He kept his head tipped low, fedora covering most of his face. But Miles saw the emblem on the man’s sleeve. He knew exactly who it was.

Jeremy Blaire.

Sick images flashed through Miles’ mind instantly. What he would do when he saw Blaire, how he would handle killing the other man. And oh, how he would suffer. Miles wanted to see his face twisted in pain as he forced him down onto the floor by his neck, knife to his throat.

Miles wanted to watch him beg. He wouldn’t spare him, of course. He wanted revenge; not just for Waylon, but for all of the innocent people he’d raped, murdered and sold.

Before Miles knew what was happening, Blake picked up his previously discarded backpack, tossing it into Miles’ arms, “Gear up, be out in five. Don’t forget to turn on your ear piece.”

Miles nodded, taking one last look at the screen before tossing his things onto the living room couch, pulling the black-out gear from his bag.

He couldn’t help the small spark of hope behind his eyes, the corner of his mouth allowing just the smallest of curves.

“I’ve finally caught you, you mother-fucker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About this AU:
> 
> -Miles is a hitman that had been shaped up and trained by Blaire and his goons to become one of the pawns in the trafficking industry. But Miles had been one of their special-ops soldiers, so he knew a lot more about defense and fighting than most other men and women in training did.  
> -The reason he joined Blaire was because of debt, and he'd sunk so low into poverty that he didn't really see himself having any other choice. But he escaped once the industry starting growing, and became a merc that wanted to take Blaire's empire down.
> 
> Shout-out to [SocialDeception](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SocialDeception) once again for helping me out with the parts I got stuck on, and just being a great beta in general :)


End file.
